Thunderstorms, T-Rex, and Tequila
by Mackenzie L
Summary: All she could do was stare at him, this unfortunately attractive man who never wore suits and doodled during important meetings. She'd never intended to say yes to him...but she did. / The serendipitous story of Owen and Claire's first and only date, and the effects thereafter.
1. Glorified Raptor Whisperer

**Thunderstorms, T-Rex, and Tequila**

 **by Mackenzie L.**

 _*Disclaimer: I do not own Jurassic World, or any part of the Jurassic Park franchise._

* * *

 **Chapter One: Glorified Raptor Whisperer**

He wasn't scoping her out, he was just looking. Just appreciating.

He was allowed to appreciate a woman.

It happened all the time. There were lots of pretty women on islands. Lots of excuses for them to expose their skin and wear their hair up. But this woman drew his attention for an entirely different reason.

She was the only woman _not_ exposing skin, and _not_ wearing her hair up.

Her red hair was short — not the boyish kind of short he usually liked on women. It was feminine and overly fashionable, like some sort of runway model. She had a creamy complexion and childish features, but those features were disguised by too much makeup. Her eyes were downcast, framed by thick lashes and smoky shadow. Her lips were overdrawn with deep mauve lipstick and seemed forcefully pursed to stage extreme concentration so no one would bother her.

She had her nose in _the_ book. The one by Alan Grant. The one everyone here had read a thousand times. She was someone of importance — he could tell by the poised way she sat in her chair, far away from the rest of the crowd, on a balcony that seemed to have no visible access point.

She was one attractive bitch. And she most certainly had a stick up her ass.

Owen didn't have the nerve to approach her.

And thank the Lord he didn't do it, because he was formally introduced to her the very next day. In a board meeting.

Claire Dearing, ops manager. They shook hands before the meeting began, and he sat at the furthest point from her at the long rectangular table. He watched her eyes move from person to person as her coworkers spoke. She was overly attentive and way too uptight. His first impression of her was spot on.

Her voice was annoying at first, but after an hour of cynical old men talking, Owen became excited each time he got to hear her interject. Even though all she did was spew statistics, it was still kind of sexy.

And he kept thinking, how did such a young woman become so prolific in such a short period of time? How did she climb her way to the top of this multi-trillion dollar pile of nerds? How?

She must have been sleeping with one of these suits.

Oddly enough, Owen's theory didn't curb his interest in Claire Dearing. In fact, it encouraged him to pursue her like a T-Rex on a lost sheep.

This time he wasn't going to be intimidated. He was going to corner her.

Kindly, of course.

-o-0-o-

Claire wasn't easily impressed. It took a lot to amaze her, especially after all the accomplishments she'd helped forge here at Jurassic World. She had supervised for an entire year while an innovative team of geniuses broke countless records and paved the way for future genetic science.

She was not a social person, which wasn't surprising to many. She knew everyone in this business had their quirks, but somehow they all managed to have social lives outside of their work.

Hell, this kind of work was all consuming. This was life-changing, world-altering, _magical_ work. But some of her best players all still wanted to watch sports games and drink beer and play videogames after their shift was over. Even some of the women had children of their own. They would call off on the day of an important corporate visit to plan out their son's fifth birthday party. It didn't make any sense to Claire, a classic workaholic, how these people could be so cavalier about the work they did in this park. Still, there was that little beetle on her back called _Human Resources._ And she didn't dare bite the hand that fed her.

Work was her life. Some people called it sad, but she didn't see it that way. Numbers crunching made her happy. Watching those line graphs sweep off the chart made her high. Those Monday night conference calls with Masrani made her feel like the most important woman on earth. She didn't have to defend herself for being engrossed in her job. It was a blessing, not a curse.

There was only one person on the whole island who had ever challenged her feelings on the matter. And that person was Owen Grady.

"Saw you reading Grant's book yesterday."

She whirled around in response to the unfamiliar man's voice behind her. He was the last person left in the board room. In fact it looked as if he'd lingered purposefully so as to trap her in a conversation before she could file out with the others.

"Excuse me?"

"High noon. You. Sitting at a table, alone, hovering above everyone else." He waved one hand over his head as he spoke.

"Oh." She tilted her head, waiting for the memory to come back to her. "You were in the Innovation Center the other day?"

He shrugged. "I can appreciate all your nice, shiny holographs as much as the next kid."

All she did was nod, bemused.

"How 'bout you? This place must make you feel like a kid again, huh? No wonder you love your job so much."

Claire narrowed her eyes, skeptical of what sounded like a loaded question. Surely he was trying to trip her up somehow.

"Well, I'm more focused on the _operations_ end of things, as you know. I don't have much time to appreciate the pretty lights, Mister...?"

"What do they pay you?"

Her eyes nearly popped out in shock. "I beg your pardon!"

He continued casually, as if he hadn't just offended her to the point of speechlessness. "I'm just curious. I know it's a personal question, but since we're alone—"

"I am _not_ sharing my salary with you—"

"Owen," he supplied with a grin.

"Owen."

"Yeah, Owen Grady. I'm pretty important around here, too."

Claire crossed her arms, feeling no more need to use nice manners around this man. "So I suppose you don't mind me asking how much _you_ make?"

"I make a lot of things. Money's not really the most impressive thing on the list, though," he said with a cheeky wink.

Somehow feeling both amused and offended, she simply shook her head at him. "Right."

"I knew it was possible!" he said victoriously.

"What?"

"Making you smile."

She actually saw a glint of compassion in his eyes at that moment, which caught her off guard.

"Who ever said it wasn't?" she demanded.

"No one had to tell me. Watching you in that meeting was _torture_. Does anyone actually enjoy these things?"

"I happen to find them very enjoyable, and very interesting," she said proudly. "Of course, I pay attention."

"I paid attention," he mumbled grumpily back at her.

"Oh, really?" With one hand she reached for the table and snapped up the paper he'd tried to hide from the rest of the attendees. "Your little dinosaur doodles on this syllabus say otherwise."

Owen's jaw dropped in mock offense as he snatched the paper back from her. "That's Mikey the Marshosaurus. Don't make fun of him."

Claire scoffed. "You really are a child, aren't you?"

"No, in fact I am a _man._ " She didn't like the suggestive tone his voice had taken as he inspected himself from the chest down. "I'd hope a woman with a PhD could make that distinction." He met her eyes with a winning smirk, and her heart pounced in blissful fright.

She steeled herself with a look of haughty distaste. "Mr. Grady, you are nothing more than a glorified raptor whisperer."

"Ouch." He furrowed his eyebrows, looking hurt in an entirely exaggerated way. "I'll have to take you into our paddock sometime. You may regret saying that."

"I rarely regret anything," she assured him as she turned on her heel, tucked her binder under her arm, and prepared to leave the room.

"I know one thing you'll definitely regret." She could hear the gleeful smile in his voice without even turning around.

She made the mistake of asking, "What's that?"

"Saying 'no' when I invite you to dinner next Friday night."

She didn't want to do it, but she _had_ to turn around.

"You can't be serious."

He kept an admirably straight face. "I'd like to point out that I am wearing a suit. This may be the most serious I've ever been in my adult life."

"You're asking me out?" she repeated, still shocked at the nerve this man had, having only just met her through a business meeting an hour prior.

"Yeah... and I'm wearing a suit." He adjusted his lapels and made a comically seductive pouty face, as if this would somehow entice her.

She'd be damned if it actually did.

All she could do was stare at him, this unfortunately attractive man who never wore suits and doodled during important meetings. The intensity of his eye contact was downright obscene.

"Come on. I'll let you pick the restaurant, and I'll pay." He was really turning on the charm now. "Even though you make more than me."

Claire would never understand how ten combined years of ivy league and grad school couldn't prepare her for this moment.

And even more, she'd never believe that over half a million dollars worth of education didn't keep her from saying 'yes.'


	2. Panic Attacks and Punnett Squares

**Chapter Two: Panic Attacks and Punnett Squares**

Claire had a lot of concerns.

She didn't have any "girlfriends" to talk to about these kinds of concerns.

The only woman she trusted with remotely personal information was her assistant, Zara Young.

Zara was still fairly new to her role. Although she came with impressive credentials, she still struck Claire as being more superficial than super-intelligent. Still, Zara was prompt, expedient, and no-nonsense, which was really all that Claire needed from a personal assistant.

Claire called up Zara to meet her on Saturday after the board meeting. It wasn't atypical to find more workload after a big meeting, and most of Claire's employees expected to be called in on a weekend to put in extra hours. Lab work and zone control were 'round-the-clock jobs anyway.

Zara answered her cell phone after one ring, asked if she was needed, and appeared fifteen minutes later at the door of the lab without complaint. There were only a handful of scientists making use of the lab today. It was peaceful and low-key, perfect for checking some housekeeping items off her list.

When they worked the same shift, Claire and Zara usually took coffee breaks together. During their breaks, they chatted mostly about future appointments and booking events. Their topics of conversation were nearly always work-related, and that was how Claire preferred it.

Exactly twenty hours had passed since Owen Grady had asked her out. She had a whole week to ponder her next move, but like usual, Claire never backed down from getting a head-start.

She wanted to bring up the subject with Zara, but she didn't know how. They'd only ever really talked about business before. Would it be awkward to consult with her personal assistant for advice on something entirely unrelated to their job?

Claire found herself spacing out as Zara read off a list of new hires, mispronouncing most of their last names. When she was halfway down the list, Claire unintentionally interjected with one softly mumbled word. "Friday."

"Pardon?" Zara stopped reading, her cool blue eyes turning up expectantly.

"Friday," Claire repeated, slowly coming back to reality as she took in her surroundings.

Zara rubbed her temple in confusion as she scanned the list. "I don't see a 'Friday' on this list. When did we hire him?"

Claire shook her head. "It's not a new hire, it's a day at the end of the week. And I'm dreading it."

A panicked look came over Zara's face as she flipped open her personal planner. "I'm off next Friday, do you need me onboard? Who's coming in? Is it Masrani?"

"No, it's nothing to do with work. I have..."

Zara furrowed her brow in silent question, impatiently tapping her pen on the table.

Claire took a deep breath and confessed, "I have a date."

Zara didn't seem to know how to react to this unexpected bit of information. She opened her mouth to speak at first, then quickly closed it again. Not knowing any other way to react, she turned one page in her planner and scribbled in the words ' _Claire's date_.'

As usual, Zara was all business. "You need reservations somewhere? Any particular time we're looking at?"

"No, no, no! It's fine, really. I don't need you to plan anything for this." Claire ran her hands through her hair and forced a laugh. "I'm not even expecting anything to come of it. Trust me, it'll just be a one time thing... If it even _does_ happen."

"Uh huh." Zara looked around to see if anyone was listening before leaning in a bit closer. "So, who is he?"

Claire's stomach recoiled. Suddenly she regretted bringing her date up at all, and she tried to brush it off. "No one interesting."

Zara's eyes sparkled with scandal. "One of the lab coats, isn't it? Is it that one bloke who asked you if you were a lesbian?"

Claire nearly choked. "Ugh! That was over a month ago. And he's no longer employed with us."

"So who is it, then?"

Claire paused, unsure if the information she shared in this lab would be kept secret to preserve her reputation. She lowered her voice just enough that only Zara could hear her. "Owen Grady."

Zara only offered a blank stare. Claire was relieved that apparently his name didn't ring a bell.

"He doesn't work in the lab?" Zara asked, dubious.

"No, he's more of a ... _field_ researcher," Claire explained.

A wry smirk crossed Zara's lips as she snapped her calendar shut. "That meaning he likes to _play_ the field."

"Unfortunately, I think that is an accurate assessment."

"Darling, what have you gotten yourself into?"

Claire looked lost as she watched the steam rise from her cup of coffee. "I'm not sure."

"Well, if you happen to need me, I'm only a phone call away." Zara tucked her pen behind her ear with a grin. "And I know the key code to the T-Rex paddock."

-o-0-o-

Claire was a planner. She was a thinker. She was also a worrier.

Although she'd never admit it even to herself, all week she was planning and thinking and worrying about her date with Owen. She imagined all the various ways their night could pan out, and it overwhelmed her.

If only there were some clever scientific way she could calculate the possibilities; some way to place every variable neatly into a Punnett square and be assured of the outcome.

Her talk with Zara left her feeling more helpless than before. Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday all passed as usual, but the date was still there, like a hungry monster lurking at the end of the week. As she got closer, she could see its sharp white teeth and insatiable tongue and gleaming eyes. If only she could lock it in one of the dinosaur paddocks where it belonged.

On Wednesday afternoon it all suddenly became _real_. It was going to happen. The week was barreling on, and there was nothing she could do to control the momentum of the earth turning at 1,000 miles per hour. The sun kept rising and setting, setting and rising, again and again. And all the while she kept thinking about what she would wear, and how she would meet up with him, and what conversations they would have. She stood in front of the mirror after brushing her teeth every morning, practicing ways to talk to him, rehearsing comebacks for the snarky comments he'd probably make about her job taking over her life. She tossed and turned under her sheets at night, trying _not_ to imagine how close he might get to kissing her after the date was over...

When her alarm went off on Thursday morning, she nearly had a panic attack, thinking it was already Friday.

Claire never needed the alarm. Ninety percent of the time, she woke up minutes before it was set to go off. Maybe these recent restless nights were uprooting her sleeping habits.

Damn this man and his unprecedented influence on her circadian rhythm.

During lunch break on Thursday, Claire didn't stop at the cafe to get her usual latte and Caesar salad. She skipped the meal and coffee altogether because her nerves kept her appetite at bay. Instead of mingling with guests and coworkers for lunch, she slinked away to her office and flipped through various menus from the ferry strip to find a suitable place for dinner on Friday.

She didn't want to be in the park on Friday night — it would be too crowded. She'd find it too stressful watching the faces of the guests and wondering all night if they were really satisfied with the service. Instead, she chose to book reservations at an outside restaurant near the ferry landing called Seven Seas Steakhouse. She called and requested a table for two, preferably near the windows where they could have a nice view of the water. This was a strategic move, in case she needed something acceptable to stare at in the event that his incessant eye contact made her uncomfortable. She didn't eat steak, but she figured he must. A man like him could only categorize himself as carnivorous. She was trying to do something nice for him by being considerate of his dietary needs. Maybe, just maybe, she was also trying to impress him.

It wasn't so difficult now, she thought to herself after booking the reservations. They were just going to share a meal together. Under dim lighting. Near the ocean. On Friday night.

Damn Friday night.

Claire would hear her coworkers talk about their Friday night plans on a regular basis, but it never occurred to her that she'd be a part of the hype one day. Now she was starting to understand what it was all about. Friday night was a holy grail for these people. For her, it was usually just another evening she spent alone, adding up spreadsheets in bed with a wine glass filled with skim milk and the late show on mute. This week was different. This week, she was seeking that holy grail with the rest of the crowd. She both dreaded and anticipated what this Friday had to offer.

-o-0-o-

Owen couldn't believe Claire had agreed to go out on a Friday night. He expected her to come up with some work related excuse or complain about Friday being too crowded and clichéd for a first date. But she'd agreed to come, and not that reluctantly, if his recollection was correct.

He'd never had trouble picking up women before, so it shouldn't have surprised him that she'd agreed to go on one date. But somewhere in the depths of his gut he felt like he was being humored. Maybe it was because she was, in many ways, out of his league — or at least, that was his perception. She was literally at the helm of the park, and he was in the jungle with the rest of the beasts. Not to mention she must have had a wicked annual income to avoid sharing it with him.

But she did read the same books he did. She went through the same kinds of procedural trainings and studied the same basic principles he had. She was interested in prehistoric life. She was a science nerd. She was nice to look at.

They did have a lot in common. She just refused to see it.

All week long he wondered when she would have one of her minions at the lab give him a convenient call to work a late shift on Friday night. It would be so like her to attack from a discreet and clever angle. She was a regular raptor herself.

Owen took comfort in the toils of his job during the week. Every problem with the paddock gave him a much needed distraction. Each time one of the raptors misbehaved, he used it as an excuse to vent his frustrations.

He never took a break that lasted longer than fifteen minutes. But when he did take his breaks — and when he wasn't checking Ian Malcom's twitter feed — Owen found himself refreshing his work e-mail page over and over, searching for a message sent from 'Dearing, Claire.'

Of course he knew she wasn't going to contact him. This was wishful thinking. If he still wanted to concrete this date, he was going to have to be the prime instigator. After all, he was the one who'd had the nerve to invite her out.

As Owen found himself lost in thought, he noticed Echo was looking at him in a funny way from behind the fence. Sometimes he wondered if these animals could sense more than just human emotion. Could they now read his mind telepathically because he'd spent so much time with them?

"What are you lookin' at?" he asked the raptor in defense.

"My iPad," Barry's deep voice answered from behind. Owen turned around to see his fellow caretaker nonchalantly swiping some pictures on his tablet.

"I wasn't talking to you," Owen sighed, making a face at the curious dinosaur. She hissed at him once then scurried away to the other side of the pen.

"You've been talking to yourself a lot," Barry remarked.

Owen navigated his way through the paddock's vestibule so that he was facing his friend. He waited a minute until Barry grew agitated and finally looked him in the eye.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah," Owen said, crossing his arms over his chest. "What do you think of our ops manager?"

"Ops manager..." Barry reflected, trying to summon a face for the title.

"You know. That red-headed chick who hangs around the lab."

"Dr. Dearing," Barry recalled.

Owen suppressed the strange twist of excitement he felt from simply hearing her name. "Yeah, her."

"She doesn't visit us too often, does she?" Barry said with disappointment in his tone. He reached into a nearby cooler and tossed a green Gatorade to his friend.

"I guess the heat and the dirt don't agree with her," said Owen as he placed the cool bottle against his forehead.

Barry clicked his tongue. "Typical top dog."

Owen's stomach sank a little at the heartless description. "Well, I finally met her face to face in a meeting the other day."

"Did you now?" Barry didn't even seem mildly curious.

"Yep."

"Cool."

Desperately needing a reaction, Owen dropped the bomb. "I asked her out."

Barry simply smiled and nodded before cracking open a can of soda.

Owen's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "You don't want to know how it went down?"

Of all things, this seemed to pique Barry's interest. "Oh, you went _down_ , did you?"

Owen raised a suggestive eyebrow. "Not yet."

Barry threw his head back with a mighty guffaw. "Don't get your hopes up."

"What, you don't think I can handle the boss?"

"I'm not taking _bets_ , if that's what you're getting at." Barry's raised voice caused the raptors to get antsy. Owen jolted as Delta suddenly poked her head around the corner of the cage, spying on him from behind.

"I wasn't suggesting we take bets," said Owen, watching Delta out of the corner of his eye, "but now that you mention it..."

Barry threw his arms up in surrender. "Look, you do what you do like. Show this girl a good time, be charming, try to impress her. Just know that I don't want to be involved when things get messy."

"Messy, huh?" Owen shared a silly smirk with Delta. "Let's hope."

-o-0-o-

Owen decided to call Claire on Friday morning. He didn't wait until the last minute because he was a jerk or because he liked to procrastinate. The real reason he waited so long was because he just didn't know what to say. Claire Dearing wasn't the kind of woman he could just call on a whim. He didn't even get her cell number. Naturally, she'd given him her office number instead.

Owen woke up at 5:30 A.M. on Friday morning with a nasty stomach ache. He paced around outside for a while, trying to walk it off. He hadn't felt this feeling in such a long time, he almost didn't recognize it as nerves. At 10:30 A.M., he figured Claire would be at work so he could leave a message for her to receive when she was on lunch. Some secretary with a British accent answered and asked who was calling. He gave his name, and assuming it was business related, the woman on the other line sent him straight through to Claire's office extension without warning.

He wasn't prepared to talk to Claire now. He could leave a damn smooth voicemail, but _this_ was unexpected.

"Hello?"

Her high-pitched voice made his knuckles ache. Like an idiot, he almost dropped his cell phone.

"Claire," he said as he stumbled backwards into the sofa.

"This is she."

He smirked. Of course she was pretending not to recognize him.

"It's Owen. Remember?" He made his voice all mystical, "The raptor whisperer."

"Oh, yes. I almost forgot about our ... _meeting_ tonight."

Even though she couldn't see him, he had to roll his eyes. "Meeting, huh? Are we discussing profit margins and shortage results?"

"Sorry?"

"You can use the word 'date,' you know. It's not like it's a curse word."

She sighed. Even over the phone, it was a lovely, titillating sound.

He smiled to himself. "So I was just calling to ask where and what time I should pick you up tonight."

"I'll be in the office 'til about 4:55. Actually make that 5:05, maybe 5:08."

He was silent for a moment, letting her words sink in. "I don't think I've ever heard someone tell time in exact digits before."

"I'm very thorough with time-management. I've learned to map out my days to the exact minute." She sounded like an honor roll student trying desperately to impress her teacher. For some mysterious reason he also found this attractive.

"I can't imagine that helps with your stress levels," he said casually.

"On the contrary, it makes things run a lot more smoothly. You should try it sometime."

He laughed. "Whatever you say, chief. So, 5:08 it is?"

She paused to think before changing her mind. "Better be safe and say 5:13."


	3. Red Meat

**Chapter Three: Red Meat**

The dress was an issue.

Claire didn't have too many "fun" dresses to wear out here. After all, most of her days were spent in air-conditioned board rooms and cryogenic laboratories.

She did, however, have one dress in mind. It stayed hidden in the back of her wardrobe, behind the more sophisticated suits — like a shy chorus girl afraid to take the spotlight. Claire was intrigued by the flutter of porcelain blue fabric peeking out from the shadows of her closet. She reached back and selected the unrecognizable sun dress, holding it experimentally against her body in the mirror. It was feminine and flirty, but still conservative enough that she would feel comfortable wearing it out.

When she tried it on, she found that the price tags were still attached. She took a deep breath before she trimmed them neatly off.

She felt strange walking around her place of work in that dress, like a stage actress going to tryouts in full costume. It was the sort of dress that made her look like a woman but feel like a little girl.

Claire stopped at the top of the steel and glass staircase above the lobby, waiting for her nerves to pass. She could hear the mechanism on her wristwatch ticking second by second, bringing her closer to the inevitable moment when she'd have to face everything she'd dreaded all week. Out of instinct she found herself hugging the stone pillar for protection. It was something she used to do as a child when her father took her to his lab. If she found something scary, she would wrap her little arms around one of the support pillars and hide until she regained her courage.

It was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine.

She'd chanted this to herself so many times throughout the day that she'd started to forget what the words actually meant.

She checked her makeup four times in the reflective glass walls before finally marching past those stone pillars and making her way down to the lobby. No sign of Owen. He was three minutes late already. She should have known.

"Claire!" The male voice did not belong to Owen, but to Dr. Wu.

"Henry," she regarded the geneticist with a polite nod.

"Dressed for a night out, I see," he said, looking happier than he should have. Was everyone here secretly waiting for her to finally find some social worth on a Friday night?

Claire looked self-consciously down at the pretty pale blue dress she'd chosen to wear. "Yes, I'm ... meeting someone for dinner," she said, hoping to stay discreet.

"Good. That's good."

She didn't like the patronizing way he was nodding at her.

"I don't think he owns a watch," she remarked, impatiently glaring out the glass doors.

Dr. Wu only laughed, which made her even more anxious.

Just then, a voracious roar sounded from outside the office building, causing everyone in the lobby to turn their heads.

Claire's heartbeat stopped for a chilling second, thinking one of the dinosaurs had escaped the fence and was waiting for her just outside the revolving doors.

But what was really waiting for her, she knew, was much more terrifying.

"Oh, God..." Claire groaned at the scene just beyond the polished glass. What made it even worse was that everyone in the lobby bore witness right along with her.

There was Owen — straddling a ridiculous motorcycle — wearing shades, sandals, and neon red board shorts, framed like some kind of cartoon rock star by plumes of smoke.

Acutely aware of her audience, Claire stomped her way through the revolving door, cheeks burning like mad all the way. As soon as she stepped outside, she fell victim to an embarrassing coughing fit from all the smoke.

Owen watched her approach with tentative steps in her three-inch heels, his grin threateningly white against the backdrop of black exhaust.

"Howdy," he greeted her with a cheeky salute.

"You never said you'd be picking me up on a motorbike!" she accused, trying in vain to ignore all the people passing in and out of the office complex. She couldn't tell which burned more, all the stares she was getting from her coworkers or the smoky mess surrounding them.

He clapped his gloved hands together then opened his arms, wiggling his fingers in the air. "Surprise!"

 _What a jackass._

"I wouldn't have worn a skirt if I'd known," she hissed.

"Sure you would have."

Claire crossed her arms and stood still in her place, unwilling to move. If he wasn't going to be serious, then she wasn't going to cooperate.

He cleared his throat. "If it makes you feel better, the last girl who rode on this bike with me was wearing a bikini, so..."

"You're unbelievable."

He smirked, and a devastating duo of dimples appeared on his cheeks. "That's what they tell me."

"There is no way I'm getting on there with you."

"It's only a ten minute — excuse me, _seven_ minute — drive to the waterfront. No one will see your panties, I promise," he added, too loudly.

"Especially not you," she mumbled angrily.

His grin grew impossibly wider as he simultaneously adjusted his sunglasses and patted the space on the seat behind him. "We'll see."

"I can't believe I'm doing this." It went against every instinct she had to mount a motorbike with this man, but something terrible pulled her to do it without a second thought. She struggled to tuck her dress awkwardly between her thighs to keep from flashing the entire lot.

"I don't have a helmet for you, so hold on tight," he warned before jetting off into the sunset.

Claire didn't think any mode of transportation could be worse than the helicopters they used to get to and from the island. She was wrong. So wrong.

She had no control at all over what was happening, and she hated it. She hated how loud and windy and hot it was on the motorcycle. She hated having to hold on to this man she barely knew for dear life, and she hated the fact that she secretly enjoyed holding him.

The whole ride there she was praying under her breath that they'd both make it there in one piece. By the time they arrived at the ferry landing it felt more like thirty minutes had passed than the mere seven minutes he'd promised.

She could barely walk when she finally dismounted.

"Ha ha, you gone bow-legged already?" he asked, sounding far too pleased with himself.

"You'll be lucky if I don't feed you to the Dilophosaurus after this night is over."

He just laughed at her again. Rich, gorgeous, deep laughter that made her knees quake even more. To make matters worse, they were approaching a short series of steps that led down to the boardwalk. Claire stopped at the top of the steps, contemplating how to descend them in her impractical heels.

"Come here," Owen's voice rumbled through her from behind, and without warning he picked her up off the ground and carried her with one arm the rest of the way down.

His body was unsettlingly warm, and he smelled like campfire and deodorant.

As soon as he set her down, she looked up at him with a stiff, fake smile. "Please don't ever do that again."

He shrugged. "Yeah, you're right, I'll just let you fall next time."

Oddly enough, she felt very guilty for not just thanking him instead.

"So where are we headed?" he asked, looking up and down the promenade.

"The steakhouse. Just a few buildings down this way," she said, walking slightly ahead of him to show that she could still handle herself.

"Steak?" he sounded overjoyed. "I _never_ would have pegged you as someone who eats red meat."

"I don't," she said with a smirk.

"Nice! So I can eat yours, then?"

"Only if you behave yourself."

He chuckled. "I'm a good boy when I need to be."

"I have a feeling that means whenever food is involved," she surmised, standing expectantly at the door to the restaurant.

"All animals are the same," he declared as he rushed to open the door for her.

"Too true."

They were seated quickly because they had reservations. Right near the window, as she'd requested. Suddenly, Claire started to feel the nerves kick in again.

Owen had waited until they were seated to take off his sunglasses. She still maintained that he looked ridiculous in those firecracker red shorts, but there was something regretfully sexy about the rest of his attire. He wore a faded army green button-down shirt with too many pockets, and he had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She also noticed now that the top three buttons of his shirt were undone. Whenever she watched the other men at the raptor compound, she'd always been able to see the standard white t-shirt peeking out from under their uniform collars. The only thing peeking out of Owen's collar right now was tan skin and dark chest hair.

Claire cleared her throat and consciously averted her gaze to the inside of her purse.

"What's that?" Owen asked as she extracted a piece of paper and neatly unfolded it on the tabletop.

Before she could answer him, the ceiling fan caused the paper to flutter down onto the floor.

When Owen bent over to pick it up, she could see the tiny pineapple print on his boxer shorts, and she kind of wanted to lay down and die... with him on top of her.

-o-0-o-

She'd printed out an itinerary.

Dinner was first on the list. Reservations for 5:33 P.M.

They should be done with dinner no later than 6:30 P.M. But she'd added a notation which addressed that in the event of a long wait time, they should make every effort to be out of the restaurant by 6:52 P.M.

At 7:00 sharp, they could walk along the coast for a flexible amount of time, depending on how crowded the docks were. Drinks were optional afterward, but they were to stay out no later than 9:05 to give her enough time to be back at the complex by 9:30.

It was all typed up in black sans-serif font on some stationary with the park logo watermarked behind it. On the top of the stationary paper was a lesser known quote from John Hammond which read, _"It only takes a minute to make a miracle."_

Owen couldn't help but laugh to himself about how literally this woman tried living that quote.

"You might want to keep that in your purse," he suggested, folding it back up the wrong way.

She glared at him briefly before refolding it and slipping it discreetly into her handbag.

When the waitress came to take their drink orders, Owen took the liberty of ordering for Claire. "Two tequilas, please."

Claire opened her mouth to protest, but the waitress was already on her way to the bar.

"So..." Owen began, leaning forward on the table. His imposing forearms filled her field of vision and she felt a lump form in her throat. "This must be the first Friday night you've spent somewhere other than your office. How does it feel?"

"I feel so alive," Claire deadpanned.

"I'm not convinced."

"Look, I know you think I'm a heartless workaholic who never has fun, but you're wrong. I can have fun."

"But your idea of fun is printing reports off Excel and punching little numbers into your little calculator."

As he mimicked her by tapping his finger emphatically against his palm, the waitress placed two glasses of tequila on the table. Claire scrunched her nose up at the drink and pushed it to the side.

"And what is _your_ idea of fun, Mr. Grady?" Claire asked monotonously.

"Let's see. Hiking, I like hiking. Biking, obviously. I gamble occasionally. Poker night, you know. Hanging out at the bar after work, hot tubbing, sailing, surfing, water-skiing, s—"

"Swimming?" she guessed.

"No..." A wicked smile crossed his face as he bowed his head and let his tongue touch the salted rim of his tequila glass. "Skinny dipping."

Claire rolled her eyes and firmly crossed her legs beneath the table. "Figures."

"No, that's what you enjoy. Facts and _figures._ "

"I don't need to explain my preferences to you. What I do in my spare time is my business."

"Wow, you are so _uptight_ ," he said in awe. "Why don't you go down to that five star resort of yours and book a massage or something?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just... It's very hard for me not to think about work."

The waitress returned to take their orders, saving them from what was sure to be an awkward silence. After she took their menus away, Owen looked across the table at Claire with a distressingly sincere look in his eyes.

"Hey, look, I get it. You're a big deal here, you've got a whole island operating under your pinky finger. But listen, you have to relax. I work with raptors all day, you don't think I get stressed out? But I learn to balance. Keep it healthy."

"I see you're starting with tequila and T-bone. Very healthy."

"I'm a growin' boy." With that he downed the rest of his tequila in one gulp.

Claire couldn't help but giggle. "I agree, you haven't quite reached adulthood yet."

He stared at her with a sleepy smile, seemingly lost in thought. After a tense moment, he spoke candidly. "You know, I used to watch _The Land Before Time_ when I was a kid."

She accidentally laughed out loud, not expecting such a sensitive confession from the burly biker who tamed raptors for a living.

"I think that tequila had some immediate effects," she said while staring at his empty glass.

"Remember how all the dinosaurs discriminated against each other?" he reminisced.

"I never said I watched it, too."

He gaped at her. "Oh, come on! You can't have a career in creating dinosaurs and have never seen _The Land Before Time._ "

"I may have seen a few scenes before," she admitted.

He grinned at her knowingly. "You were a sucker for Littlefoot, right? You wanted to adopt that motherf—"

"I wasn't _quite_ that invested in it."

"Damn, I was a _part_ of that world. I was one with those dinosaurs, man."

Claire actually felt some semblance of interest in the conversation now. "I bet you wanted to move to the Great Valley when you grew up, didn't you?"

"Oh yeah, my ultimate dream would be to just live out in the prehistoric jungle. Get a big ol' treehouse with all kinds of vines, and there'd be bamboo staircases, and the whole thing would be like, four stories high. And all the dinosaurs would just chill with me all day long."

The faraway look in his eyes threw her like a stone into deep water. For a moment her heart latched onto his husky voice and sun-kissed stubble, and she could almost see herself falling into his arms at the end of the night...

"In a way, you're kind of living that dream here, aren't you?" she posed.

Owen smiled. "In a way."


	4. From Hot Fudge to Hot Water

**Chapter Four: From Hot Fudge to Hot Water**

Owen ate like a caveman who had been starving on a deserted island for two weeks.

No one had to tell him that. He already knew. Hell, Claire's judgmental glaring as he stabbed at his steak was confirmation enough.

He didn't care. Let her see how a real man eats.

Meanwhile, she picked at her food. Like a bird.

He never saw someone eat so daintily before. It was actually funny.

Her fork barely touched the plate. Little by little, she worked away at her risotto until forty minutes later, he looked down and it was almost gone. Her lipstick never came off, which he found fascinating.

Maybe he'd find a way to make it come off later on.

"You didn't touch your tequila," he remarked, pointing at her full glass.

She dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin, not meeting his eyes. "I'm surprised it took you this long to notice."

"Trust me, I noticed. I came this close to just finishing it myself."

"So why didn't you?" she challenged.

"I figured you just wanted to save the best for last," he smirked. "Speaking of which, we still need to order dessert."

He should have seen it coming.

"I don't do desserts."

His mouth dropped open. "No tequila. No dessert. What are you, a monk?"

"No, I'm on a diet."

"Can't you indulge for just one night?"

Her eyes sparkled prettily under the dim lamplight. "I commit to a very regimented lifestyle."

"Come on, you can't say no to a—" he paused to open the dessert menu, "—Swashbuckler's Sundae."

"Actually I can, when I think of the calories."

He rubbed his chin. "I can think of plenty of ways for us to work off those calories later."

She raised one eyebrow at him.

"Jogging along the coast, yeah?" he supplied cheerfully.

She shook her head. "I'm really not hungry."

"Fine. More for me."

And he did indulge.

The sundae came topped with a jolly roger flag, which he waved in her face like a little kid. "Argh, matey! There be hot fudge in these waters."

Claire's forehead met with the palm of her hand. She watched him through the gaps in her fingers as he made a scene out of enjoying the ice cream. She couldn't deny the misplaced attraction she felt for this self-confident man-child and his liberal eating habits. He was so opposite to her, she almost couldn't help but be intrigued.

At that thought, she kicked herself under the table.

She kept the conversation going out of obligation while he licked chocolate sauce off his fingertips, and she ignored the ridiculous temptation to lick it off for him.

A man like Owen was clearly not blind to such inner turmoil. With just one scoop left, he slipped his spoon between her fingers, observing her perfectly manicured nails as he guided her hand towards him.

"I can't."

"Just one spoonful. It won't kill you," he chuckled as her fingers twitched in protest. "You know you want to."

She couldn't believe she let him feed her that damn hot fudge.

"Wanna wash that down with some tequila?" he asked.

"Don't push your luck," she hissed with all the venom of an angry raptor, furiously wiping her mouth of all chocolate evidence.

He was pleased to at least see some of her lipstick fading now.

-o-0-o-

They walked down the boardwalk after dinner, just like she'd planned.

There were plenty of other people around, which kept it less intimate, which was a good thing. She didn't want to admit to herself how pretty she felt walking beside him. The warm wind teased her skirt each time she stepped forward, and she could feel his eyes on her whenever she looked toward the ocean. He stayed close to her side — maybe a bit too close — but she didn't mind at all. As the evening wore on it got windier outside, and though the weather was still warm, his body heat gave her ironic chills.

After ten minutes or so of walking, they paused to look out over the water in a less populated spot. It was quiet enough that she could hear the lapping of waves on the water and the distant percussion of night bugs in the jungle behind them. The sky was darker than normal for so early in the evening, and somewhere to the West an anvil cloud lurked ominously, threatening a pure amethyst horizon.

"You're quiet," she observed with a suspicious glance at his face.

His eyes were hooded but content as he stared out at the ocean. "I think I'm in a chocolate coma."

She let out a short laugh of victory. "I told you dessert was a bad idea."

He shook his head emphatically. "No, it was a brilliant idea. I'll sleep like a baby tonight."

"Well, that makes one of us."

She hadn't given much thought to saying it out loud, and she instantly regretted it when he looked down at her with stabbing curiosity.

"Insomniac?"

"Not officially. But some nights it's tough to sleep when you accidentally remember that you're on an island full of dinosaurs."

"Sing it, sister." He nodded slowly at the deep backdrop of jungle, looking thoughtful before he suddenly blurted, "You have a water bed?"

"...No."

"Neither do I. But sometimes I think I might sleep better with one."

She just closed her eyes and shook her head.

A low rumble of thunder sounded off in the night, building like an approaching train from the distance.

"Funny, they didn't predict any storms tonight," Claire sighed, disappointed. In all her planning efforts, she'd relied on the one constant of good weather to get her through the evening.

"I could have told you it was gonna storm tonight." Owen said with certainty as he squinted up at the sky.

"How's that?"

"Whenever I sense a rainstorm is coming, my hips get all weird."

Before he even finished his sentence Claire was shaking her head. "I don't believe in body aches or joint pains caused by impending weather events."

"No, they don't hurt. They just-" He demonstrated by swiveling his hips in a hula style dance. "And there's no way to stop it!"

Claire quickly looked away from the indecent sight and pretended to search inside her purse for something. Anything she could do to keep him from thrusting his pelvis in her face.

She snorted, "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard," and began to walk away from him.

"It was a joke," he defended.

"Whatever you say, Elvis."

He gave a long sigh of defeat. "See, you _can_ be witty, but you don't think anything's funny." A fierce clap of thunder rattled the boardwalk, but he didn't flinch.

"You know what I don't find funny? The fact that we're about to get drenched. Can we please get a move on so you can take me back to the park?" Claire begged, starting a power stride towards the dock.

"Aw, come on, you can hang out a little longer. What's life without a little adventure?" As he spoke, warm raindrops began to fall in their path.

"Riding back through the dark jungle on your motorbike will be quite enough of an adventure for me, thank you!" Claire said forcefully, holding her purse above her head to keep her hair dry as long as possible.

Whatever she said had spurred Owen to pick up the pace. "Hell, when you put it _that_ way..."

-o-0-o-

They didn't even make it halfway to the park before the downpour started.

A typical island rainstorm could last hours on end with torrential rains and gale force winds. The weather could be cruel like that, going from zero to hurricane in twenty seconds or less. Claire couldn't remember the last time she was caught in a storm without an umbrella. A faint memory of walking back home from the school bus in grade school came back to her. In it, she was staring down at her soaking plaid pleated skirt in shame while the other kids skipped merrily ahead of her, not caring that they were getting wet. Claire was so used to being over-prepared. The possibility of getting caught in the rain as a responsible adult seemed virtually impossible with all the care she put into being ready for anything. Oddly, some part of her was glad to let go and let things happen as they may. This required her to surrender all control for a change, and it was a regretfully addictive feeling.

Riding back with Owen in the storm was exhilarating.

Claire didn't care that he went off-road between the trees to take short cuts. She'd put all her trust in him now. His body became her only source of stability, and she was forced to hold him tighter with each swerve he took. His shirt with too many pockets was pasted to his skin from all the rain. Beneath the paper-thin cotton she could feel his muscles, wired steady even through the constant vibration of the motor. She felt like a little girl again, hugging her stone pillar for strength.

She kept her eyes closed through most of the ride, if just to keep the dust and debris out. The darkness and uncertainty of exactly where they were headed scared her a little more than she wanted to admit. Not to mention, there were dinosaurs afoot on this island. The fact that they were supposed to be secured behind electric fencing didn't do much to comfort her in the middle of a thunderstorm.

"You okay?" Owen asked her over the roar of the motor.

She squeezed his waist in response, and she noticed he drove just a little faster.

Owen was getting too much enjoyment out of having her hold him. He knew deep down that this would be the closest he'd get to being intimate with her tonight. Claire was beautiful and intelligent but she was also frigid enough to make all hell freeze over. Even some of the less conservative girls he'd been with were choosy enough to refuse sex on the first date.

He certainly wouldn't have denied Claire if she wanted it, but clearly that would only be happening in his fantasies.

Maybe it was for the better. He couldn't imagine what kind of meltdown he'd be in for if she woke up in bed next to him tomorrow.

He secretly found her uptight attitude endearing. He'd never dated a woman like her before. The girls he'd gravitated towards in the past had all been, well, like him. But the one thing all his previous conquests had in common was that they didn't understand his obsession with his job.

 _"You train WHAT?"_ they'd scream, as if he'd told them he delivered alien babies for a living. Even if they made it past the initial "Here's what I do for a living" speech, most of the girls couldn't handle how much he talked about his raptors. It was almost like they were threatened by his relationship with the pack. Like the real reason he went to the paddock every day was so he could fuck the dinosaurs.

Owen inevitably would get into a huge fight about what was more important, his job or his relationship with whatever woman he was with at the time. And that was the main reason the relationships always ended badly for both parties. In the end, everyone lost. Except for the fabulous four. Charlie, Echo, Delta, and Blue would always be there for him.

Those other women just didn't understand why working with the dinosaurs was such an integral part of his life. They were bartenders, waitresses, card dealers, and scuba instructors. None of them lived the dream he had been aching to live since he was a little boy. More importantly, none of them were the operations queen of Jurassic World.

Compared to Claire, Owen looked like a slacker at work. She was perhaps the only person he'd met who was more committed to her work than he was. This was both refreshing and frustrating for him. He wanted to show her that life could be a balance between work and play. He got the feeling that she didn't truly enjoy her job, but rather she buried herself in it to keep from feeling socially isolated. He knew from the day he saw her staring in rapture at Dr. Grant's book that she, too, had a pure love for dinosaurs, but she failed to see how the ones they created at the park were really _alive._

She was a beautifully bleak person, and he intended to fix her. After all, she had requested an adventure — and that adventure would continue after the motorcycle ride was over.

When Owen finally slowed his bike down, Claire noticed that they weren't where they were supposed to be. Her hands unintentionally tightened their hold on his torso as the rain obstructed her already hazy view of the darkening forest. They looked to still be in the middle of nowhere, and there were no lights visible except for a small lantern glowing in the far distance.

"Where are we?" she demanded, glancing around in a panic.

"My place!" he answered above the raging storm.

Claire could only shake her head as they approached a makeshift trailer by the water's edge, her heart galloping like a frightened horse in her breast.

This was certainly _not_ part of her itinerary.

Before she could protest, he brought the bike to a screeching halt and lifted her off the back seat. He carried her like a rag doll through the mud while the rain beat down on them, muttering about how the government should outlaw high heeled shoes. He set her firmly down on the ground while he unlocked the front door, then he pushed her inside with thrilling urgency.

"Damn," he muttered to himself as he watched the rainwater cascade off the roof into the grass. "It's gonna flood pretty bad out there."

Without warning, Claire burst, "How dare you?"

Owen whipped around, looking innocently back at her. "What?"

"You were supposed to take me back to _my_ place!" She actually stomped her foot.

"Hello? It's pouring out there! I didn't think you wanted to suffer any longer than you had to, so I stopped here."

Claire was actually shaking with anger. "You could have told me you were going to do that," she said darkly.

"Well, excuse me for not having every move I make typed up on an itinerary," he laughed.

She ignored him and rummaged through her purse for hand sanitizer. "We're leaving this place as soon as the rain stops."

Owen shot a dubious look at the window. "And if it doesn't?"

"I'll call one of my rangers to come pick me up."

He chortled under his breath. "One of your rangers."

"I'm serious, Owen. We never agreed to this."

He felt physical pain when she said his name, sharp and unforgiving.

"Never agreed to what? Stopping at my place along the way back? You think this is all part of some master plan to take advantage of you or something?" He shook his head, laughing. "Seriously, woman, you just need to relax."

Claire gave up on trying to wipe down her skin with tissues and hand sanitizer. "Well, I don't know how I'm supposed to relax when I literally have mud all over me."

Before she'd even finished speaking, he disappeared into a tiny hallway.

"What are you doing?" Her question was answered by the sound of rushing water.

"Starting the shower for you, princess."

Claire gulped. "What am I supposed to do about my clothes?"

He laughed a little. "Generally, you discard your clothes. That's how this whole shower thing works, see."

Claire instinctively tugged the neckline of her soggy dress upward just a tad, even though he couldn't see her. "I _meant_ what do you expect me to change into after showering?" she asked tartly.

"I'll find something for you to put on in the meantime," he replied in a muffled voice from the other room. A few seconds later he poked his head around the doorjamb. "Come on back."

She slipped out of her heels and tiptoed over the rough carpet into what she quickly realized was his bedroom. An extreme feeling of uneasiness settled in the pit of her stomach as she navigated her way through the cramp room, squeezing between pieces of mismatched furniture and stepping over piles of clothes.

An inviting cloud of steam welcomed her into the even smaller bathroom where he was bent over, placing a towel on the tile to act as a temporary bathmat.

"Enjoy," he simpered before shutting the door behind him.

Claire gingerly peeled away her wet clothes, leaving them to hang on the towel rack, which she belatedly realized was empty of any extra towels. Turning around, she noticed that the latch on the door handle was unattached.

She experimentally pushed on the door and it swung open. She gasped and tugged it back towards her naked body.

"There's no lock on this door," she pointed out loudly, shaking the loose handle.

"Oh, yeah. It's broken," Owen said with a smirk in his voice.

"And you never bothered to fix it?"

"I live alone," he shouted back. "Be glad I even have a door on that bathroom!"

Claire shuddered and covered her bare breasts with her hands. "Oh, that's comforting!"

His footsteps drew threateningly close to the door. "Don't worry, I'll warn you if I have to come in for something!"

Claire shrieked and jumped into the shower, violently shutting the curtain. Over the rushing water, she could still hear Owen's hearty laughter from the other room.

She tried to convince herself that her misplaced smile was just a result of the hot water hitting her back.


	5. Good night, Kokomo

**Chapter Five: Good night, Kokomo**

He should have known she'd be the type to use up all the hot water. Why the hell did women take so damn long in the shower anyway? She better not have been using his razor to shave her legs.

While she was in the shower, Owen took a moment to survey the state of his living quarters. If he'd known Claire would be coming back here with him he probably would have cared to tidy up a little. A woman like that probably slept in a minimalist California king bed with a canopy and matching accessories. She'd just have to deal.

He did feel kind of bad about her dress getting ruined though. Should he compensate her for the damages with cash? That seemed kind of tacky. He would have been more than willing to compensate her in a multitude of other ways, but he was sure she'd find none of them kosher.

Owen groaned to himself as he searched fruitlessly through his dresser drawers for something suitable to give her when she came out of the shower. Girls seemed to like over-sized shirts, but nearly every one that he owned seemed to have something inappropriate written on it. He didn't notice before how tasteless a lot of his T-shirts were, until he was forced to look at them through the eyes of a gentleman. Digging through each drawer was like digging through sedimentary rock on a palaeontologist's site. It wasn't until he reached the very back of his bottom drawer before he found the one plain white T-shirt in existence. He swore it must have been placed there by the angels. It was like finding a real dinosaur bone after years of finding only stones.

By the time Claire knocked on the door for his attention, Owen had at least cleaned up most of what was lying on the floor.

"Owen?" her voice was so small on the other side of the door. It made him feel warm in all the right places.

He could have pretended to be gone and waited for her to venture out in the nude, but he decided it best to cut her a break by now.

"I'm here," he replied. "I'll leave some clothes for you on the bed so you can change."

He tossed a pair of Nike basketball shorts on the bed beside the white T-shirt and closed the door to his bedroom after walking out.

The thought that she was likely walking into his bedroom right now, naked, about to put on _his_ clothes was too distracting. He had to find a way to keep his mind off of all things Claire, at least until it was his turn to use the shower.

After taking off his wet, muddy shirt, he walked up to the fridge, poured himself a glass of orange juice, and turned on the radio.

He noticed she'd left her handbag on the counter top. He entertained the brief temptation to snoop inside it before deciding that probably wasn't the wisest idea. It's not like she was hiding a gun in there.

But then again, that might not be too far-fetched.

He chuckled darkly to himself as he downed the rest of his orange juice. Thinking it might be nice to offer her a drink when she came out, he poured another glass and set it beside her handbag.

His ears perked up when he heard the door to his bedroom squeal open.

The way Claire looked hopelessly around the room reminded Owen of some damsel in a comic book. The water had teased her pin-straight hair into a wavy mess, which he thought made her look even prettier. She made that white T-shirt look heavenly.

It would be a good thing if she'd used up all the hot water because he was going to need a cold shower.

"Feel better?" he asked, smiling.

She nodded once, looking very embarrassed about something. Maybe she was feeling guilty because she'd made such a fuss earlier.

"Have a drink," he offered. When he saw the look on her face he assured her, "It's just juice, I promise."

She looked wary but reached for the glass nonetheless.

"Oh, my..." she murmured as she approached him. He saw her eyes widen as they drifted down his bare chest.

"Thanks, I've been lifting."

"No... it's your..." She swallowed hard and made a sweeping gesture up her side.

He looked down again, this time recalling the elaborate scar that stretched across his lower ribs.

"Oh, that." He made a special effort to sound nonchalant. "Blue."

Claire's previously pink face had gone pale as she squinted to get a better look. "It's more of a reddish, purple-ish—"

"No, Blue. She's one of my raptors," he explained.

Claire now looked dangerously close to swooning. "A velociraptor did that to you?"

"Yes."

Her eyes turned up to his face then, and the look in her gaze was so disarmingly vulnerable that he felt a wave of emotion seize him, turning his soul inside out. For a weird moment it was like he was back in the Navy, with the captain barking orders for him to kiss the woman across from him. And a naval officer _never_ disobeyed the captain's orders...

"You still like your job, don't you?" she asked him. Her soft words snapped him back into reality.

"I love my job," he said with an emphatic grin to reassure her.

She smiled, just a little on the edge. He could almost make out the hint of a dimple in her right cheek.

In an effort to lighten the mood, he turned up the knob on the radio, crooning out the first lines of _Kokomo_ with the rest of the Beach Boys.

"Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna take ya..."

Claire bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. She certainly didn't want to encourage his antics, but she had to admit that he could tickle her funny-bone in a way few other men could manage.

"It's my turn for a shower now," he shouted over the blasting music. He lifted the small radio onto his shoulder and pointed back to his room. "I'm taking the boys with me. I know you'll miss them..."

She rolled her eyes at him before he disappeared into the back room, belting out the lyrics, " _We'll get there fast, but then we'll take it slow! That's where we wanna go-oh-oh-oh_!"

Claire waited a bit until she could hear him secure the shower curtain, still singing off-key along with the radio. Once she was sure he wasn't coming back out anytime soon, she took the opportunity to sneak back into his bedroom.

She could see now why Owen didn't have a bunkmate with a lifestyle like this. Surely no one in their right mind could stand living with someone so obnoxious. He left dirty clothes on the carpet, and played the radio way too loud, and sang in the shower, and...

And he had a collection of dinosaur figurines on his dresser. Like the kind little kids played with in preschool.

And he kept photos of his raptors on his nightstand. Actual photos. Framed and all, as if they were real members of his family.

And Dr. Grant's book was lying on his pillow, face down to mark the page. The same book she'd been reading the day he was spying on her in the Innovation Center.

Was it just a coincidence? Dr. Grant was something of a legend around this place. Surely everyone had a copy of his original thesis about the evolution of birds from dinosaurs. It shouldn't have surprised her that Owen might have been in the middle of reading it. But it did. It surprised her because he'd brought up the same book when he first met her. Maybe seeing her read it had inspired him to reconnect with the text himself.

That thought made her heart flutter just a little — the same way the photos of his raptors made her feel sentimental, and the dinosaur figures on his dresser made her feel nostalgic.

There was a map of South America on the wall behind his bed, with multi-colored push-pins indicating the places he wanted to visit and the places he'd already been.

Next to the map there were several certificates posted from his on-boarding and training at the park, along with various other achievements and military badges from his time in the Navy. A framed green board showed all the various forms of sailor's knots he'd learned to tie, and a giant jar full of sand dollars and seashells showed how much time he'd spent on the beach.

Claire at once felt those sailor's knots in the pit of her stomach.

This wasn't the type of man she should be dating. This wasn't the type of man from whom she should be borrowing clothes or accepting drinks. This certainly wasn't the man with whom she should be considering a relationship.

Looking at all these bits and pieces from his past and all these beautiful facets of his personality made Owen all the more _real_ to Claire. This was the last thing she wanted. Up 'til now, he'd just been a silly frat boy who only happened to be smart where dinosaurs were concerned. Now she was being forced to see the man who served his country and collected things and made memories and... cared about things.

It made her ill to think of everything that had happened between them tonight. It made her guilty to think she might have even accidentally led him on the slightest bit by agreeing to go out tonight. Her mind had done a sudden 180 now that she was standing here, in his downright mess of a home, shivering in men's clothing with wet hair and bare feet.

What would happen tomorrow? And the day after that? And the day after that? There was no way that things wouldn't spiral out of control now. All it would take was one person from the lab finding out that she spent the night with Owen Grady, raptor specialist...

This couldn't happen, Claire thought. She must have been out of her mind. To take the time to print up her plans for the evening with _him._ To ride a motorbike in a dress. To let him — literally — carry her to his house.

Yes, she was certifiably insane. Owen Grady was not her type. Not by a long shot. Claire Dearing couldn't be with a man who wore sandals and cussed and ate red meat for every meal and lived in the jungle. She belonged with a man who aced at Harvard and made a seven figure salary and could recite the dictionary by heart and preferred board meetings over board shorts.

Why was she wasting her time here?

Why was she even considering Owen?

Most importantly, why was she still somewhat stubbornly attracted to him despite his philistine lifestyle?

The best cure for improper attraction to anything, Claire had found, was to suppress it until it disappeared. And that she would do, with regards to the man currently singing in the shower.

First, she had to get the hell out of here.

-o-0-o-

Owen was in his own paradise. His own lukewarm, low-flow, scratchy old radio paradise.

He may not have led the smoothest of rides tonight, but Claire was _here_. He'd miraculously managed to bring her into his domain, which meant he'd won... at least part of the prize.

He finished showering before the song was over, shut the radio down, dried off, and jumped into the nearest pair of shorts. He didn't bother putting a shirt on. She'd already seen his scar, and he wasn't wasting another second. He blasted through the doorway, eager to find her still in his bedroom, waiting for him.

But she nowhere in sight.

"Claire?"

He called for her, one stride later coming to the end of the hall. Though it was almost pitch black in the house now, he could barely make out her silhouette against the rainy door screen.

There she was, topless, struggling to slip one leg into her still muddy dress. She gave a terrified yelp and covered herself with her arms, nearly falling over to the ground.

Owen knew he should have turned away and offered her some privacy but he was so shocked he couldn't even manage to look away.

"Please tell me you can't see anything!" she whimpered pathetically, frozen in place.

Well, he wasn't going to lie. "Uhh..."

"Oh my GOD!"

"Claire, calm down."

"Don't you dare tell me to calm down! I'm stuck in this hell hole with a perfect stranger — and yes, you are still a stranger to me, Owen — for God's sakes! How could I have been so stupid?" She zipped up her dress so hard that he heard the fabric split at the back. She didn't seem to care as she frantically flitted around the room, gathering her belongings.

Owen was dumbstruck. "What is wrong with you? What the hell happened?"

Claire stopped for a second to stare hopelessly up at the ceiling. "This _date_ is what happened. Ugh! I'm such an idiot."

Carefully, he inched closer to her, thinking a softer approach would be the way to win her back. "Look, Claire, I'm not trying to bait you here or anything. You know that, right? You know me well enough to know that I would never—"

"Apparently, I don't know anything anymore. I can't trust myself to make decisions when I'm dumb enough to decide to go out with you."

Claire had been known for her harshness of tongue, but her words had never stung Owen as hard as they did then. He'd been stung by wasps, scorpions, and jellyfish. But none of them were as venomous or as destructive as the sting of Claire Dearing and her heartless words.

But like a good naval officer, Owen got right back up to his own defense. "Exactly _what_ is so bad about tonight?"

"What _isn't_ bad about tonight?" she shot right back, slapping her purse against her side. She stood there, dripping wet, looking so lost in the middle of the dark room. Before he could anticipate her next move, she thrust open the door and high-heeled her wobbly way down the porch steps.

Owen followed her in hot pursuit. It was raining still, but the rain fell softly now, causing the palm fronds to shimmer and sway around them in an ironically peaceful dance.

"You're delusional, you know that?" he called, causing her to whip around. "You're standing there, screaming all this shit about how you can't trust yourself ever again because—what?—you go on one date with a guy and maybe find out he isn't your type? That's what dating _is_ , Claire."

"I can't afford to make mistakes like this." She pointed to herself, one perfectly manicured finger square in the center of her chest. "Not in my position."

Owen would have cackled if not for the positively debilitating sinking sensation in his gut. "Oh, oh! Your _position_! I see where this is going now." His voice got rough as he stumbled down the steps after her. "Too good for the stable boy, right?"

He thought he may have seen a flicker of regret in her gaze as he got closer. "That's not what I meant."

"Bullshit, Claire. That's exactly what you meant. You think I don't know why you pretend to hate everything I do?" He stood in front of her, feeling significantly taller now that they were on even ground. Even with her stupid high heels she couldn't intimidate him.

Her voice was scathingly soft as she squinted up at him with her devastatingly green eyes. "I don't pretend, Mr. Grady. I genuinely _do_ hate everything you do."

He leaned in closer despite her warning expression.

"I don't buy it at all," he declared. "You have all this misplaced hatred for me for no reason. The only reason it could be is that you're secretly attracted to me and you don't want to admit it to yourself."

She stared up at him, gaping, her lips trembling so slightly he wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't inches away from her face. He watched the raindrops cling to her eyelashes like tears of frustration as she shook her head.

"That is... preposterous!"

"Yeah?" he whispered, leaning in just a tad closer.

For one scalding hot second in time, he was convinced that she was going to let him kiss her. He could have sworn her eyes were begging, and her breath was racing, and the raindrops were purposefully gathering on her lower lip, eager to be a part of the kiss...

And then—

"I cannot _believe_ this is happening! Are you so painfully arrogant that you can't take a hint from a woman when she is literally screaming in your face that she doesn't want anything to do with you?"

"Not painfully arrogant, no. I can admit that I am arrogant from time to time. But you, Claire, are more arrogant than I could ever dream to be."

It was then where they both saw the tables turn. His words gave her pause, and suddenly she was the bad guy. Her eyes flickered down to the scar on his chest, and she knew that the scars her words had left on him ran far deeper than the claws of a raptor.

"If that's how you feel," she caught herself in a sob, "then I see no reason to continue this argument any further. We both know this night isn't ending favorably."

Owen chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, you seemed to know that from the second I picked you up after work." He glanced down at her shoes in the mud before catching her eye. "Still didn't stop you from getting on the motorcycle."

Her mask of perfect makeup had melted off her face completely now, revealing the indignant freckled face of a child. She whirled around so that her back was facing him and began defiantly tapping away on her cell phone.

Owen stepped back with his hands on his hips, watching the hopeless scene as it played out before him. He knew she would barely get service out here, but he didn't try to stop her.

"Hello? Brandon?" she shouted into the phone. "I know the team is off duty right now, but I need a ride. It's a bit of a hike, so you'll probably need the four wheeler." Owen rolled his eyes. "I understand it's after hours but I'm in a bit of an emergency here. I'll send you my location on the GPS... Thank you, I appreciate it. You'll be compensated next week, I assure you." She stuffed her phone back into her purse after ending the conversation and stomped her way back to the porch so she could be protected from the rain while she waited.

"Tomorrow morning, you'll regret making such a scene over this whole thing," Owen sighed dejectedly.

"Well it's too bad you won't be there to witness my regret, then, isn't it?" she snapped.

He shook his head as he passed her on his way back inside. "I'm not even gonna say anything anymore. You've made up your mind. You have zero respect for me, so why should I even bother talking to you?"

He stopped halfway through the threshold to hold the door open in case she wanted to come back inside. She didn't budge, but he could see her staring at him out of the corner of her eye. He couldn't tell if the droplets on her cheek were tears or rain.

"Well, good night, Claire. It was fun while it lasted."

Before he shut the door behind him, he heard her utter four words of farewell.

"Good night, Mr. Grady."


	6. Debris in the Seven Seas

**Chapter Six: Debris in the Seven Seas**

It happened exactly two months later.

There was nothing to prompt it, no reason behind it, nothing to remind her about him. It just happened.

She was getting ready for bed one night. A Friday night. Maybe that was part of the problem.

On Friday night it always felt like everyone was out enjoying life except for her. It was like that awful sinking feeling of loneliness that she usually suffered through on New Years Eve when she had no invitation to a party.

She hadn't thought about Owen Grady much since their disastrous first date. The day after she was angry. The day after that she was frustrated. And the day after that she was mildly upset. But all those feelings went away. Work got tougher, responsibilities got more intense. People needed her to travel and attend seminars and make presentations and calculate expenses. She was busy, and that's the way she liked it.

Then the seminars and presentations suddenly stopped, and the sun set at last on her horizon.

She had just slipped into her pajamas and gotten into bed when it hit her.

It was Friday night and she wasn't at the lab.

The last Friday night she'd spent away from the lab was with _him._

The regret built up slowly. In fact, if she hadn't thought about him for more than just a few minutes, the thought would have probably passed without precedence and been a distant memory. She would have gotten a full night's rest and woken up refreshed and gone on with her life like normal.

But it didn't happen that way.

She realized that she had pulled the covers up to her chin, the way she used to do when she was a little girl if she had seen a mysterious shadowy shape cross her bedroom wall. She was thinking about him in a way that wasn't reproachful or disdainful or dismissive. She was thinking about him in a way that was curious and regretful and nearly... wistful.

She thought of the way he'd looked in a suit when she first met him in that damn board meeting. She thought of the way he kept photos of his raptors on his bedside table. She thought of the way he licked hot fudge off his fingers and smiled at her like a naughty little boy. She thought of the way he sang in the shower, and the way his bare chest shimmered in the rain, and the way he picked her up off the ground as if she weighed nothing at all...

And though the thoughts themselves should have been pleasant, they were anything but. They were torturous and miserable and irresponsible. Before she knew it, she was crying all over her pillow.

She was crying. Over Owen Grady.

She wanted to do something ridiculous and impulsive, like run to his place and crash through the door and declare her sincerest apologies for leaving him that night. She wanted to grab his head and kiss him ferociously until he begged her to let go.

It was absurd and embarrassing. She had no business thinking such things about this man she'd turned away. She had no right to want him now, when it was far too late to go running back. She didn't even like him. She couldn't stand him. She was his polar opposite and he wasn't good for her. He was a bad influence. He lived his life with reckless abandon and without regiment.

And yet, she wanted him.

The wanting was so keen and so concentrated that she didn't know how to pull herself out of it. She couldn't suppress it. She couldn't ignore it.

Here it was, happening to her, like her worst nightmare come true. It was a haunting, biting kind of pain. It cut deep like a battle wound. She felt as if she'd been tossed off a cliff, drowned in a river, dragged across jagged rocks, and left to bleed on the ground.

And she should _not_ have felt this way about Owen Grady.

Like a bad angst scene in a teen drama, Claire tore the covers off her body and bolted for her balcony door. She threw her arms onto the railing and heaved sob after pathetic sob into the cold metal. She felt like she was crying into the shoulder of a skeleton.

She was very aware of the pulsing of her own heart, and the sound of it disgusted her.

It didn't take long for her to snap out of it. A few minutes later, she wiped the tears away from her face, stood up straight, and berated herself with a bitter laugh. This was ridiculous.

It was almost 10:30 but she rushed back into her room, grabbed her phone, and called Zara anyway.

Bless that woman, she answered no matter how ungodly the hour.

"What did we forget?" Zara asked, all business as usual. There was no sleep in her voice at all, and for some reason Claire found this surprising. Sometimes she swore Zara was really a robot, designed for the sole purpose of being available for work related issues at any given moment. She seemed to be activated instantly by the sound of her phone ringing.

Claire rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror. "Nothing. But I need a favor."

"I already wrote up the agenda for tomorrow. Get some rest, darling."

"No, it's not the agenda."

Zara paused. "Something else?"

"It's Friday," Claire stated.

"...And?"

"Let's go out."

She could almost hear the confusion in Zara's breath over the line. "Go... out?"

"Yeah. You know, for drinks or something."

"Do we...do things like that?" Zara sounded like a mother whose estranged daughter had just asked to visit after years of isolation.

Claire suddenly felt a bit foolish. "No, but we can. If you want."

Zara responded more quickly than Claire anticipated. "Alright, then. Where to?"

Thank God she was the boss.

"Ever been to Seven Seas Steakhouse?"

o-0-o

There were more people at the bar than Claire thought there would be. Friday nights really were the main attraction around here.

Claire wasn't used to sitting at a bar. It was awkward, she thought, being forced to stare at strangers across the way as they all sat in a semi-circle around the bustling bartenders. TV's blared overhead, blasting the scores of random sporting events she couldn't care less about. Occasionally the crowd would groan or cheer, but she paid no attention. She was caught up in the psychology of everything that was happening around her.

She got a lump in her throat whenever she glanced around at the tables where couples were sitting together, enjoying quiet conversation by the windows. It hurt to think that she once sat there with _him_ beside those very same windows. The table they had shared was now occupied by a hopelessly dewy-eyed young couple who couldn't have even been of legal drinking age. It was weird to look upon that table from an outsider's perspective. Claire wondered if there had been a single, lonely woman sitting at this very same bar two months ago who had looked upon her and Owen that way.

Suppressing the urge to sob, she took a deep breath and looked in the other direction.

Claire found it surprising that people came out to eat dinner so late at night. She had been ready for bed by ten. It was now almost 11:00, and her first glass of wine was still more than halfway full.

Claire was a slow drinker, when she chose to drink at all.

Zara showed up at 11:00 on the dot and sat herself down on the stool beside her boss. She looked incredible in her leather jacket and tight blue skirt. A lot of the men sitting at the bar turned to stare at her when she arrived. Claire felt oddly out of place now. She could have gotten all dolled up instead of just changing back into her work clothes before going out. Maybe it would have made her feel stronger and more rebellious for a change.

Ironically, Zara didn't notice any of the stares. She dropped her over-sized Michael Kors purse on the counter and demanded a Grey Goose martini from the bartender.

She turned to Claire with disarming sympathy in her icy eyes. "Who stole your promotion?" she asked.

Claire almost laughed. "No one."

Zara raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Forgive me, but I can't think of any other reason _you_ would want to go out drinking, dear."

"It's more complicated than that, I'm afraid," Claire admitted, cupping her glass of wine between her hands.

Zara leaned closer. "I'm listening."

Claire stared intently into her wine glass, trying to block out the thousands of other carefree conversations taking place all around her. "God, I just know it's going to sound ridiculous to you. I don't even want to say it now."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Claire, just spit it out."

After a long gulp of wine, Claire caved. "You remember when I went on that date with the raptor specialist a while back?" She didn't think it was necessary or healthy to say his name out loud.

"You mean the one you couldn't stand but you went out with him anyway?" asked Zara.

Claire hiccuped. "Er... yeah."

"I remember." Zara squinted at some unseen point in the distance. "God, that must have been five months ago, yes?"

"Actually it was two months ago," Claire corrected before she could stop herself.

Zara shrugged as she began digging through her purse. "Seems an eternity."

"Well, we've been quite busy in the meantime." Claire watched, bemused, as her assistant extracted a small compact mirror from her purse and nobly untwisted a tube of lipstick.

"So what you made you crack?" Zara asked, enthusiastically waving her lipstick around for emphasis as she spoke. "Oh, no, let me guess. You ran into each other at the innovation center and it all came rushing back to you? Then the next day he called, begging for you to give him another chance?"

 _If only_ , Claire thought.

"No, I just... I just thought of him for the first time in a while. That's all."

"You just _thought_ of him." Zara looked dumbfounded, stopping once again before she could apply her lipstick. "And that's cause for drinks."

There was a drawn out pause during which Claire considered one very obvious yet disturbing possibility.

"Am I crazy?"

Zara gave a bolt-like laugh before she finally raised her lipstick to her mouth. "Crazy? Not sure. But you're certainly different, Claire."

"I can't help it," Claire moaned into her wine glass. Her voice echoed pathetically back at her along with the stiff perfume of chardonnay. "I'm not used to this, you know that."

After she finished applying her second coat of _malicious mauve_ , Zara snapped her mirror shut and offered some words of wisdom.

"Claire, men float in and out of a woman's life like debris on the ocean. And if you'll pardon my French, most of it's just shit until one day you happen to find some treasure. But we _never_ , _ever_ go swimming in the wreckage, Claire. If the ship sinks, you don't drown yourself with it."

Though she understood quite well what her friend was saying, Claire's heart did nothing but deny the truth behind her words.

"But I feel like I missed something. I don't know why. I don't even really like the guy. At least, I don't think I do..." A brief but powerful flashback of his eyes staring deeply into hers as the rain sparkled down his furrowed brow gave Claire pause. "...I just can't help thinking that I didn't give him enough of a chance." She fought off the tears by taking another generous sip of wine.

"You feel like you were a bitch," Zara concluded with confidence.

"Yes!" Claire declared at once, slapping her hand down on the counter in resolution. "Yes, dammit, I was a bitch! I was _such_ a bitch!" Her display caused several heads to turn in her direction, but she barely noticed for the pleasant buzz building in her fragile brain.

"Claire, don't take this the wrong way, but you were born a bitch," Zara informed. "So was I. It's a point of pride."

"How is that a point of pride?" Claire was confused.

Zara simpered prettily at the apologetic bartender as her drink was finally placed in front of her. "Women like us, we know what we want. If a man can't give it to us, we move on to better things. Why waste time on the 'what if's'?"

"It's only natural, isn't it?" Claire supposed.

"Not at all! Look at you. You're a powerful businesswoman. You have everything that man wants and can't have. You're successful and ambitious. You don't need him. Even the thought of him is insignificant to you."

Just a few hours ago, Claire would never have believed such talk. But something about the combination of the rowdy bar, the flush of the wine, and the confidence in Zara's accent was enough to boost her self-esteem with startling immediacy.

"You're right!" Claire nodded proudly. She raised her glass to toast, slopping some on her blazer by accident. "To my imminent promotion!"

Zara looked genuinely amused as she toasted her boss and took an indulgent sip of vodka.

All was going well, Claire thought. Until, at that moment, the entire night turned upside down.


	7. Ex-Bar

**Chapter Seven: Ex-Bar**

Claire felt her brain buckle. Not even God himself could have planned such a cruel joke for her tonight. She blinked twice, then three times, testing the accuracy of her vision. After a glass of wine, her eyes were known to falter considerably. But this wasn't any alcohol induced hallucination. This was white hot reality.

Across the dim, crowded restaurant, coming right through the glass door, was Owen.

She wanted to choke, cheer, and cry at the same time.

Zara, still celebrating their impromptu toast beside her, smiled cluelessly at Claire. Claire didn't know whether to inform her friend of the predicament immediately or ignore altogether that their territory had been invaded.

As skilled as she was in the mathematics department, Claire was thrown for a loop. She had before herself a conundrum. It was a problem complex enough to twist one's mind into a pretzel. It didn't help that her judgment would be severely impaired by that unfortunate bit of alcohol already in her system.

A cold wave of sickness settled heavy and unwelcome in Claire's stomach. At the same time, the room suddenly felt swelteringly hot. Her face was flushed but her hands were clammy. Her feet twitched against her stool, and her breathing suddenly quickened as if she were waiting to hear her sentence from a prosecutor.

It wasn't that bad. She tried to convince herself.

But it was.

Owen paused at the door to chat with the hostess, whom he seemed to know personally. He made a waving motion to another man who was standing some distance away. The man came forward to greet Owen with a hearty slap to his back. The three of them made casual conversation, all smiles, unwittingly blocking new guests who were struggling to file through the doors behind them.

At the same moment, Claire became vaguely aware that Zara was now consumed in conversation with another young woman who had just sat down beside them at the bar.

Taking advantage, Claire managed to compartmentalize her panic and assess the entire situation as rationally as she could. As far as she could determine, she had three options available.

She could confide in Zara that the object of their discussion had just entered the premises. Although this wasn't preferable; for if she were to call attention to his presence, this would likely cause drama within their circle. More drama, she could do without.

Her second option: She could pretend that she did not notice Owen's entry, and go on with her evening as she'd intended, ignoring him completely. This seemed favorable to the former option, though in the likely event that he would notice her, she would have to maintain obliviousness to him throughout the night.

The third and final option she considered was the most tempting. She could make up an excuse to leave the restaurant right now, so as to avoid any contact with Owen, and to escape having to explain the uncanny coincidence to Zara.

Claire determined that she had about a minute or so to make up her mind. However it was unfortunate that Owen was literally blocking her only way out. In order to exit quietly she would have to fabricate a legitimate reason to leave, convince Zara, then hide in the restroom until he had taken his seat at the bar.

Nothing about option three, while appealing in theory, seemed feasible at this point in time. Especially considering her dampened sensory perception.

Claire breathed a shaky sigh and squinted between the many bodies at the bar counter to find Owen still near the door, surrounded by several more friends.

 _Mr. Popularity_ , she thought ruefully.

Maybe she'd get lucky and he'd be distracted enough by all the people not to notice her. It was very crowded. There was no chance he'd be sitting anywhere but at the bar tonight, she knew that. If she wanted to ensure that he wouldn't recognize her, she would have to move at some point. And she'd have to get Zara to move with her.

Glancing around the restaurant, Claire realized with dread that all plans in the pot were bound to burn.

She was trapped.

"Good catching up with you!"

The sentence stood out to her above the rally of strange voices, because it was spoken by _him._

Oh, God. He was on the move.

"Another drink for you ladies?" The bartender's intrusion startled Claire so much that she actually jumped.

"A Jack Rose, please," Zara pitched bossily, pushing her empty stem back to the bartender with hardly a break in her conversation.

"For you, Red?"

Claire bristled inwardly at the unoriginal nickname. If she had a buck for every time a strange man addressed her by the color of her hair, she'd not only own Jurassic World, but she'd have planted new parks in all seven continents by now.

"Something strong," she murmured cryptically.

He grinned, up to the challenge. "On it." He pointed at her cheekily and wagged his over-waxed eyebrows. Claire decided she couldn't stand him.

Meanwhile the very man she had previously made the same assumption about was now prowling the bar counter on the opposite side.

Claire subconsciously cowered in her stool. She tried in vain to arrange herself so that she looked casual while still managing to hide her face from his view. She knew she'd failed when Zara's hair flipped unceremoniously into her face.

"Darling, watch your handbag," Zara hissed as a mountainous man lumbered forward to take the one empty stool left at the bar. Claire managed to snatch her handbag out of the way before he could sit on it.

Damn. Now that the seat beside her was occupied, Claire felt more claustrophobic than ever. She threw a sidelong glance at her hefty bar neighbor, inspecting his impressively rectangular face and hammer-like hands. She watched him gruffly order a bottle of beer and down it in five seconds flat.

Her eyes drifted to the nether reaches of the bar where Owen stood with many others behind the row of stools, since there were no available seats left. He held a bottle of beer in one hand, chatting with people. Claire couldn't tell if these were lifelong friends of his, or perfect strangers. He seemed to speak to everyone with the same level of irresponsible charm and friendliness, and for some reason this enraged her beyond belief.

So consumed with her surroundings, Claire missed the moment when her second drink had been placed in front of her. She stared down at an unfamiliar but pretty looking glass of bubbly clear rust-colored liquid.

Inhaling its decadent scent while her hands picked up the deceptively heavy glass, she took a careful sip. It was delicious at first, then horrid a moment later. She forced herself to swallow the acidic potion and coughed lightly. It tasted like someone had hollowed out a watermelon half and poured Lysol into it.

Eyes still burning, Claire unwillingly raised her head and opened her lids to gaze across the swimming room. There Owen stood, half-empty bottle in hand, speaking to the prettiest woman seated on that side of the bar. If not for Zara, Claire thought, that woman would have won the title easily. There wasn't usually even a competition when Zara was in the room, but this was a different story. Owen's new friend, whoever she was, seemed enthralled to be sharing his company, and that made her look even more attractive.

Claire fumed, her anger fueled by the mysterious drink she begrudgingly kept sipping.

The noise of the crowded bar amplified in peppered bursts of applause and excitement, the people's collective attention momentarily lifted to the TV screens above. Something good must have happened in one of the games, Claire guessed. She gained the tiniest bit of relief to see that Owen was not immune to it. He too, took a spare second to glance up at the TV while the woman beside him continued talking.

What could she possibly be saying that was so interesting? Claire wondered. Did they know one another already? Were they just introduced to each other tonight? Who _was_ this woman?

This was not at all what Claire had intended when she left her room today. In fact it was exactly the opposite. It was as if God had fabricated the least ideal situation to occur as punishment for even thinking she had a chance to drown her misery in the drink. She had to laugh at the irony.

"What's funny?" Zara asked over her shoulder, edging on tipsy now.

"Nothing." Claire was careful not to look in Owen's direction.

Claire was pretty sure Zara wouldn't recognize Owen anyway. They'd never seen each other before, she remembered, which hit home just how short-lived their "relationship" had been.

It wasn't even a relationship, she thought sadly. She didn't allow it to become that.

It was just a date. Just one disastrous date.

Yet it left her wanting more. And because she had so vehemently refused him, she was in no viable position to go crawling back to him, begging for a second chance. If anything were to come of them somehow down the road, it would have to be initiated by him.

And right now, that was beginning to look more and more impossible to Claire.

Owen smiled at the woman in the stool in front of him, charm reflective and genuine in his warm eyes. His smile was downright beautiful. Why hadn't Claire acknowledged that before?

Claire's oblivious competitor was a striking brunette - in that way, she was similar to Zara. But her skin was more tan, as apposed to Zara's pure porcelain complexion. Her hair had subtle highlights that only showed when she moved under the dim bar lights. It was wavy, longer than Claire's hair had ever been, and her eyebrows were uniquely thicker than average. A strong pair of cheekbones, sweeping lashes, and dangerously plump lips accompanied the myriad of unfortunately nice qualities she possessed.

Claire was tempted to give up hope. Sighing, she buried her thoughts with another sip of her drink. Zara nudged her.

"Some bloke is staring at you."

Stunned, Claire's head snapped up. It couldn't be...

Her eyes went immediately to Owen, who was still blissfully wrapped up in deep conversation with the brunette beauty. If it wasn't him Zara was referring to, then who?

Then she noticed him. He was tall and lanky, not terrible looking, but not particularly handsome at first glance either. His eyes were small behind his glasses, and his face had a cartoonish simplicity about it. The moment she locked eyes with him, he was already making his way over to her.

Claire resigned herself to greet him kindly. She had nothing to lose.

He spoke to Zara first. "Mind if I introduce myself to your friend here?"

Zara quirked an eyebrow as she glanced back at Claire. She didn't wait for permission. "By all means, darling."

Claire pursed her lips at Zara. But Zara gave her a look in return that seemed to say, _"this is just what you need."_

Oh, the misery.

Claire threw one last glare at the flirt whose laughter captured her raptor whisperer on the other end of the bar. Reluctantly she forced a smile at the strange man in front of her now. "Hello."

"Hi, I'm Xavier."

Well, at least his name was interesting.

"I'm Claire."

"I noticed you haven't been that into the games tonight," he remarked, shrugging towards the TV overhead. "I wanted to assure you that you're not the only one here who's not into sports."

Oh. Was she that obvious?

He tipped his glasses over the bridge of his nose and smirked in a way that came off as arrogant. Was he playing his nerdiness up because he thought she'd find him unique, or quirky, rebellious, or relatable?

Because so far she didn't find him to be any of those things. She found him to be exhausting.

"It's not that I'm not into sports," Claire retorted, not feeling particularly guilty for wanting to shut him down. "I'm just not into the teams that are playing tonight."

He managed not to let his face fall, but she could see in his eyes that he was slightly stung. "Ah. What teams do you watch?"

Claire started to sweat, caught off guard. She didn't really know many teams. Off the top of her head, she rattled off some common team names she heard her coworkers blab about on occasion. "The Cubs, the Cowboys, the Lakers..."

He seemed bored. That made her a bit angry. Who was he to judge her taste in sports? Even if it was fake.

"Ever been to any games?"

"Oh, yes. I go all the time with my brother," she lied. Might as well have some fun now, she figured.

"You have a brother?"

"Yes. He's older than me by two years. He's a wrestler. He's won a few titles back home. He just moved down here this month, actually. He wanted to watch over his baby sister, you know."

"No kidding."

She could swear she saw him gulp.

"Yeah. He hates when I come to bars without him. He's the overly protective type, a real muscle head. If he knew I was here without a chaperone he'd probably tear apart any man who dared to speak to me!" She laughed.

Xavier looked downright ill now. "Oh, wow."

"So what teams do _you_ watch?"

"Oh, um..." Xavier abruptly coughed, looked to his left, then his right, and excused himself to get another drink.

Claire smugly straightened up on her stool. Zara turned back to her with a dubious look. "Harsh one, boss lady."

"Ugh, he deserved it. He was so ... pretentious."

Zara cackled and downed her third drink. "They all are."

Claire wished dearly that she could be on the other side of the bar with the real object of her interest tonight. Owen wasn't pretentious. Not to say he wasn't annoying. He certainly was. But he got under her skin in a way that was as pleasant as it was annoying, which was quite the mystery. He didn't share her kind of humor at all, but she found it intriguing. He was so loose and happy and carefree and... Just so much her _opposite._ She craved him. Now more than ever, she wanted to feel the way she felt when she was with him again.

She envied the woman who had clearly secured a place on Owen's motorbike tonight.

Her short-lived victory over Xavier's advances now sat bitterly in the pit of her stomach, overcome by dismay that she could never have a chance with Owen Grady again. From the looks of his joy, he had clearly moved on. And why shouldn't he? He was such a resilient man. The kind of man who probably set Bob Marley songs as his ringtones. The kind of man who took his full hour lunch break without even thinking of work. The kind of man who decided to take impromptu road trips to exotic places without planning ahead of time. The kind of man who would make love with the windows up and the door unlocked because he believed love was beautiful and not shameful and he didn't give a damn who walked in on him because he had nothing to hide.

Dear Jesus.

Where did _that_ come from?

Claire felt the bubbly effects of her drink churning in her belly. Her head was dizzy and her eyes were acting as if she hadn't dropped four grand for LASIK surgery last year. Rude.

Owen's grin was about as bright as a galaxy from where she sat. He looked healthy and hardy, and pink-faced, radiating masculine contentment. She couldn't stand it anymore. With a childish hiccup, Claire stood clumsily, failing to balance on her heels. She clutched Zara for support before steadying herself, ready to escape.

Then, she heard it.

Her name - over the drunken crowd, across the vast bar, and through the referee's whistles. Her name. In Owen's voice.


	8. Rocky Road and Waterbeds

**Chapter Eight: Rocky Road and Waterbeds**

"Claire?"

It was a question, as if he weren't sure she was real. It wasn't as if he were yelling, it was just an exclamation of genuine surprise. She didn't know how to react, so she stuffed her purse beneath her arm, whipped around, and ran away without saying goodbye to Zara.

What if she had looked back and he was still with that woman? What if she had to confront him with a forced hello and pretend to just be old aquaintances? What would she do if she had to speak to him at all? She'd die.

Her heart thudded unpleasantly in her chest as she struggled past people, through the doors, and out onto the boardwalk. The familiar sea air met her nostrils and effectively washed some of the lightheadedness away. She walked quickly, trying to steady her faltering steps. No drink was worth this. How often did she need to remind herself of that? She should have just settled with a glass of milk in bed like she usually did on a Friday night. Damn anyone who accused her of never taking risks. This was why she played it safe her whole life. To avoid drama.

Claire brushed her hair forcefully behind her neck as she clomped her way to the railing overlooking the water. She stopped suddenly, hands clutching the rough wood. It was soothing to just breathe, just enjoy the lapping waves and the gentle breeze. It was late enough that hardly anyone was out now. They were all back there. In the bars. Drinking and flirting and doing all of the things she just never felt right doing.

God, she just wanted to go back to the lab and calculate something.

The reflection of a bright crescent moon rolled elegantly over the quiet waves. In the distance, palm trees shivered slightly, and crickets mumbled in the grass. From somewhere behind her, Claire could hear muffled voices. Curiously, she turned around to see a two teenage boys and a young girl dressed in mint green uniforms and matching caps. They were just coming out of a fluorescent lit kiosk, in the process of closing up shop for the night.

On a whim, Claire walked quickly over to them. "Are you closed?" she inquired.

One kid glanced at his cell phone. "We have two minutes yet, did you want a cone?"

Ice cream. They were selling ice cream. Claire's mouth watered uncharacteristically at the thought.

"Sure," she conceded, pulling out a few bills from her purse pocket.

The boy with the cell phone nodded towards the girl, who hopped happily back to her spot behind the small counter, her blond ponytail swinging under her cap. "What flavor?"

"Um. What do you recommend?"

"I like rocky road the best," the girl offered, looking admirably up at Claire. From the looks of her freckled chipmunk cheeks, she couldn't have been more than fifteen years old.

"Rocky road it is." Claire cashed in for her cone with an ironic smile. Such a flavor summed up her dating life perfectly.

The girl carefully scooped a generous amount onto a large sugar cone and wrapped it in a pink and white checked napkin. Claire accepted the dessert warily, not well-versed in the art of holding an ice cream cone. It was harder than it looked. Especially while drunk.

"Have a good night!" The teenagers waved as they shut down their cart. They each hoisted backpacks over their shoulders and headed off together back to the mainland.

Claire awkwardly slurped the side of her ice cream cone so it wouldn't melt onto her fingers. She couldn't deny that the flavor was enjoyable. Much more than that nasty drink the bartender had tortured her with. It wasn't often she let herself indulge in things like ice cream, so it was a refreshing change of pace. She leaned against the railing, gazing out at the sea while she lazily licked until her tongue was numb with the cold.

Not a few minutes later, she heard footsteps approaching her from behind. Guessing it was Zara coming to chastise her, Claire turned with a narrowed brow.

It wasn't Zara. It was Owen.

She blinked, hoping that maybe she would luck out, and it would be an illusion this time.

Maybe the illusion would indulge her too, and he would step boldly into her personal space, take her chin between his hands and kiss her long enough that her ice cream would melt completely.

"I thought you didn't approve of empty calories," he pointed out, smirking fondly in the dark.

"Even girls like me need a break from the regiment."

He raised his eyebrows. He almost looked impressed.

"How've you been?" he asked, genuine interest in his voice.

"Holding up. You?"

"Better than ever."

Her heart sank. Was it the girl he was with tonight? Was that the reason for the mirth in his voice and the light in his eyes? Or had he always been this way, and she was just too blind to notice before?

"Good to hear."

She felt awkward going back to what was left of her ice cream cone. She didn't really want to slurp like a little kid in front of him. She could already tell her lips and hands were sticky. Then she remembered how he'd had no qualms about making a mess of himself in front of her when he'd ordered a hot fudge sundae on their first date.

Maybe she should just screw it.

Without thinking (again, blaming it on the alcohol), Claire attacked the rest of her ice cream with her tongue until it was nothing but the stubby end of the cone left in her hand.

Owen just stared at her, with a look on his face that was a perfect cross between concerned and impressed. "Rough day?" he finished.

She tossed back the last bit of cone and hiccuped again. "Are you kidding? My day was _phenomenal._ "

"I honestly can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

"Neither can I," Claire mumbled, feeling lightheaded.

"Claire, come on. You can't be _that_ drunk." His face was etched with true concern as he inched closer to her, as if she were a tiny injured bird he was afraid of scaring off.

"How do you know?" she sloppily demanded.

"Your girlfriend back there finished half your drink after you left."

Typical Zara. Always taking advantage of what others left behind. Claire shrugged and leaned back against the railing, eyes closing involuntarily.

She didn't remember falling asleep, but apparently she had. When her eyes opened a few minutes later, her face was inches away from Owen's. It was still night, and they were still on the boardwalk, but he was hovering above her - his deep green eyes unblinking, examining hers.

"Yeah," he whispered thoughtfully, his fingers prodding her temple. "You _would_ be a lightweight."

Even in her haze, Claire caught a note of unmistakable fondness in his voice. She gasped as he lifted her in his arms, but she didn't protest this time. It would have been comical if she'd been able to witness the scene from afar, she thought. He carried her like an abductee, slung conveniently over his shoulder. Part of her wondered if he had arranged for this moment to happen. Had he known all along that she would come sulking back into the restaurant where they shared their first date, get drunk because she was missing him, and he'd show up conveniently at the ideal time to prove her wrong? The strangest part was that it didn't seem far-fetched anymore.

She let him carry her away, because she wouldn't have been able to walk on her own if she'd tried. She didn't complain when her bottom hit the familiar seat of his motorbike. Her heart spiked with misplaced excitement, though she should have been terrified to relive the nauseating adventure of riding with him based on her reaction the last time, especially in her delicate state. This could potentially end very badly, she thought.

She let him arrange her limp body so that she was strapped snugly against him. His quick, capable hands suddenly paused, like blood pressure cuffs, clutching her upper arms fiercely.

"Are you gonna be able to do this?" she heard him ask. She nodded once and winced. Her head throbbed.

"Hold me tight, Claire."

It was those four words that sealed her fate. His voice was gruff, but somehow aching with care and concern. Such tender weight was placed on her name. The sentence echoed within her mind, deliberate and devastating, until she felt her body unraveling, shredding to pieces from the inside out. Weak but determined, she grasped his waist as tightly as she could, her cheek pressed to his back.

The motor shook through her as he sped off, the roars and scrapes testing her limits. The longer they rode, the harder it was for her to keep her grip. She had flashbacks to her last stormy ride on this very same motorcycle. She'd thought _that_ was rough. It was nothing compared to this. She could literally feel the bones rattling in her body, and her lungs slapping against her ribs with every curve and bump in the road. By the time he finally slowed to a stop, she half expected paramedics to appear with a stretcher, ready to cart her off to the hospital.

She wouldn't have protested that either.

She listened to Owen fumbling around with straps and brakes and buckles for a few seconds before he stood up, temporarily leaving her without a support.

"Careful," he warned, sliding his hands beneath her arms to lift her up. This time he cradled her romantically across both arms, safe against his broad chest. In theory, this could have been a fantasy. If only she weren't stuck in such an embarrassing state.

Claire went in and out of conscious thought as Owen walked, making the journey from the porch to his room seem oddly long-winded. She felt herself being laid to rest on a flimsy, unfamiliar surface. At first she thought it was a hallucination, an effect of the drink that made her feel like she was floating on the ocean. With effort she opened her heavy eyelids and poked the undulating mattress beneath her.

"I told you I wanted to get a waterbed," he explained, a smile evident in his husky whisper.

She wanted to laugh but didn't have the energy. She just shook her head and sighed.

"How do you feel?" he asked casually as he sat next to her on the bed, causing the waves to move her body up and down.

She patted her mouth with the palm of her hand. "Shaken up."

After tugging off his shoes, he turned to look down at her. "Sorry," he said softly.

"It's not your fault," said Claire, trying to sound a bit more convincing.

"Imagine that."

"Huh?"

He raised his eyebrows. "You're being forgiving towards me. I think I might die of shock."

Claire shuddered and clutched her head with both hands, twisting on the uncomfortable waterbed. "I think I'm the one who's going to die."

"Jesus, Claire, you'd think you got roofied," he murmured, placing a warm hand on the small of her back.

She moaned and turned onto her belly, her hair messily falling into her face against the pillow.

"I think you should spend the night here - not that you have to," he quickly interjected, "but it is almost midnight anyway. I'd go sleep on the sofa. I'd hate to have to force you back onto my bike again just to drive you to your apartment. It'd be a long way."

She didn't comment on any of what he was saying, simply because she couldn't bear to interrupt him. She didn't want to admit it, but the low verberations of his voice were so soothing. It was so nice to just listen to meaningless words from him in the dark, while his hand acted as a stamp of sweet security on her back.

His fingers tentatively tightened for a moment, which sent a sweeping thrill up her spine. Her headache eased instantly, distracted by the affectionate gesture that seemed second nature to him.

"I'll make you breakfast tomorrow," he promised, patting her back twice before he stood up.

She didn't move an inch, pretending to sleep. A wayward tear prickled in her eye. How she wished she hadn't been so cruel to him on their date. He wasn't bad at all. He wasn't dumb or irresponsible or childish or any of those things she accused him of being. He was genuine and caring and kind and ... oh, Lord. He was so handsome.

Peeking through her lashes, Claire caught a frustratingly impaired glimpse of him as he stripped off his shirt in the dim room. The only thing rippling more than the waterbed right now were Owen's muscles. Claire felt her heart racing so fast she was sure the beating could be heard, louder than the propeller on Masrani's chopper. Though Owen was facing away from her, the view was just as strapping.

His pants were low on his hips, so low that she caught sight of the fair white skin that now peeked just above his waistline. She was surprised by how much paler his skin was beneath the clothes that he never shed for the sunlight. His tan followed an almost perfect line around his waist, the darker skin separated from the lighter skin, the way milk separates from coffee. As if self-conscious about this two-toned travesty, his fingers deftly hooked into his belt loops to pull his pants up snugly around his hips. His effort was pointless, though.

Claire let her breath out slowly, feeling the dizzy sensations return though she laid prostrate on the bed. It wasn't good to get overexcited, she had to relax. She found it hard to do that when he turned to face her, oblivious to the fact that she was watching him in the dark. The impressive scar left behind by his beloved raptor stretched viscerally over the landscape of his chest, down along his side. It was more brutal looking than she remembered it. Though upsetting to look at, it did very little to detract from the pure virile beauty of his body.

The clipped musical _ding_ of his cell phone sounded off from his back pocket, and he swore softly under his breath.

Claire flinched a bit at his crass choice of language, but forgave him when she recalled that he thought she was asleep. A faint blue light swept across his face as he checked the text message. His brow was stern, concentrated, his jaw set and mouth an even line. His eyes flicked ever so slightly as he read from left to right, his lips moving imperceptibly along with the words. His fingers poised on either side of his phone to respond, and as he typed away, his teeth slowly chewed on his bottom lip.

Why Claire found every motion so fascinating was well beyond her. For a sickeningly pathetic moment she wished he would collapse into the waterbed beside her, and allow his glorious bare skin to burn her back as he spooned her for the rest of the night.

Reality hit her as the light on his phone went out and he turned to walk out of the room. Once he was gone with the door closed behind him, the room felt so much colder. Her head started to pound again, and chills took over her body. Everything was so unpleasant when he was gone. Why was that?

Though she hated being dependent on him in any way, at least she found his presence right outside the door to be comforting enough to help her fall asleep.

As for what would happen in the morning, she had no idea.


	9. When Comets Collide

**Chapter Nine: When Comets Collide**

Trying to get a good night's sleep after drinking was worse than Claire remembered.

Throughout the night Claire kept waking up, sweating, shivering, then falling back asleep only to trip headfirst into confusing nightmares. She saw dinosaurs lurking in the corners of Owen's bedroom, poised for the kill, with their evil yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. She saw cold, white, sterile lab tables filled with notepads, numbers and test tubes. The tables seemed to stretch on forever and ever, and at the end of the table she saw Masrani, smoking a cigar, laughing at her. She felt the waterbed slosh beneath her, stirring up unpleasant sensations in her vulnerable stomach. She smelled the lingering alcohol on her own breath when she struggled for air, and it made her head spin. Under the simple cotton bed sheet, her body felt lonely and trapped. The nightmares went on and on, always disjointed, like a poorly written storybook. And after the dinosaurs' eyes closed, and the test tubes shattered, and the cigar smoke cleared, all she could see was a ghastly pink scar stretched across a heroic bare chest.

 _Stay calm._ She thought, still drifting in and out of an uncomfortable sleep. _Just breathe. Stay still. Just relax. You'll wake up and everything will be normal again._

But she knew it wouldn't be normal. She was in Owen Grady's bed. That was not normal.

At last, Claire opened her eyes fully and looked around the room. Just a hint of dawn peeked through the blinds on the window behind the bed, drawing stripes of weak sunlight across the walls. For a moment she thought it could be simple. She could get out of bed, pull herself together, wash her face, be calm, thank him for helping her last night, and kindly request to be taken back to her apartment.

Then her ears started ringing and she became brutally aware of her hangover.

She was not going anywhere for a while.

Meanwhile, Owen was unaware of Claire's night of turmoil. He'd slept like a baby through the night, knowing she was safe in his room, yet he woke bright and early without the need of an alarm. Just the urgency of having Claire under his roof was enough to awaken him on time.

He started the day in his usual routine. Stretch, wash face, brush teeth, start breakfast. He never expected Claire to wake up before noon after the night she'd had. For that reason, he didn't think it necessary to put on any clothes other than his boxers.

He paused when he heard her stirring in his room. The door was cracked open just enough so he could hear her. The waterbed made it more obvious when she was fidgeting. He wanted so badly to go in there and check on her properly, but he knew the likelihood of her freaking out was too high to risk.

He shook his head as he turned to put a bowl of oatmeal in the microwave. This woman was not his responsibility, but he felt so obligated to be a part of her life. He couldn't explain it. Claire was not his type at all. She couldn't make him happy. He certainly couldn't make her happy. They'd make each other crazy. They already tested the waters. It wasn't going to happen, no matter what circumstances brought them together.

Instead of feeling discouraged over this, Owen knew he should have felt relieved. He could stand by his morals and say he simply felt obligated to take care of someone who clearly could not take care of herself. He was just doing a good deed. He was living out the scout's honor. He was helping out a friend...er, coworker.

Owen finished his breakfast in record time, eager to move on to the next task at hand. He would have to acknowledge that Claire was already awake. He could clearly hear her. It wasn't some secret that she had spent the night. He wondered if she would be gracious and thank him for looking out for her, or if she would lose her shit like the last time and accuse him of setting her up.

There was no way to find out unless he spoke to her.

And that was intimidating.

Owen rolled his eyes. He could honestly say that working with raptors was easier than working with Claire Dearing.

A surge of determination filled his chest, and Owen bravely nudged his bedroom door just enough to peek inside.

Her face was peaceful, porcelain pale, and her red hair burned like flat fire against the white of the pillow. Her thin arms were locked together in an empty embrace, her hands clutching one another as if in prayer. Her eyes were shut, and her lips were set in a pout. All he wanted to do was kneel beside her and stroke her hair and whisper comforting nonsense to her while she lied there.

The little boy in him thought she looked like some sort of fairytale princess. It was actually kind of thrilling to have her in his bed. But seeing her there made his heart stop. The bed belonged to him, but as long as she occupied it, it was entirely off limits. It was as if stepping anywhere near her would set off the alarms and send electric currents out to shock him straight.

It was infuriating and delicious and frustrating and exciting.

She was completely helpless, and yet she had him in a bind. She could have been his prisoner, but he was really hers.

Owen had to smirk at the twisted nature of it all. Claire certainly was the queen of operations on this island. Even when she wasn't in control, she had complete control over him.

Resigned, Owen let go of the fantasy and went to lie back on the sofa. He counted ceiling tiles for a good ten minutes before he got a text message. Nerves rattled, he saw the name flash across the screen. _Amanda Feller._

She wasn't his girlfriend. They'd just started dating a week ago. He didn't owe her any explanations. But he recalled the passive aggressive message she'd sent him at midnight last night.

 _Guess you really needed to help your friend out. I'll find a ride home. Call me tomorrow morning._

In the light of day, Owen felt even more like an idiot for leaving Amanda behind last night. It wasn't his intention to ruin the date. He had dropped everything for Claire, just as he knew deep down he always would. But he had hurt another woman in the process. He was a sucker.

What would Amanda's message say this morning? With dread in his gut, Owen reluctantly unlocked the screen.

 _I know you must be up by now. I told you to call me. Guess you don't really care about pursuing this relationship._

Owen read the text three times to fully comprehend it. What was there to pick apart? Was she being straight with him or playing games? Did she really think this was a "relationship" already? What relationship? He almost had to laugh. They'd gone on three dates. It wasn't a relationship. Was it? Why did women always get to decide when they were in a relationship? Wasn't communication important between couples? Where was the conversation to decide on this?

Owen felt his pulse increase as anxiety set in. How could he respond to her? Should he call her? What would he do if he did call her? Apologize? Come up with some bullshit excuse for why he left? He didn't really want to talk to her now. She would likely just rip him a new one anyway.

He sat there, contemplating what to do for about five more minutes before his phone actually rang. And he'd thought Rolling Stones would make such an un-stressful ringtone!

His stomach dropped, thinking it had to be Amanda.

It wasn't. It was Barry.

"Hallelujah!" Owen exalted.

"Uhhh... Good morning to you, too?" Barry was thoroughly confused.

"What's happening, my friend?"

"I was going to ask you that! Weren't we supposed to meet this morning for next week's workload?"

Owen slapped his forehead. "Oh, shit."

"Yeah," Barry laughed forgivingly. "I know it's Saturday but we agreed it's better to get it out of the way before Masrani comes in next Wednesday, yes?"

Glancing back at his bedroom door, Owen consciously quieted his voice. "Well, let me see, I can maybe come in around...Oh, I don't know, two o'clock?"

There was a long pause on the other end. "Did you take Amanda home last night?"

"Fuck no!" Owen shouted in defense, quickly remembering that Claire would hear him.

"Okay... so what are you up to?" Barry demanded.

"Nothing!" he hissed.

"But you did see her last night?"

Owen scratched his neck absently. "Yeah, but we didn't leave together."

"How come?"

"Uhh..."

Barry's voice took on a note of warning, "Owen..."

"I'll call you back later."

"Owen!"

Just as he hung up on Barry, the Rolling Stones echoed out from his phone again, seemingly louder than before.

 _Call from ... Amanda Feller._

Owen promptly shut off his phone and stuffed it under the sofa cushion.

He stood up and marched defiantly into his bedroom, momentarily oblivious to his minimal attire.

She was sitting up in the bed now. Her hair was messy, and her freckled face was flushed. She looked like a college girl who was experiencing her very first hangover after having sex with the guy who'd taken her home against her will.

Thank God that wasn't the scenario at hand.

Owen smiled helplessly at her. She didn't smile back.

"How are you feeling?" Even though he knew the answer.

She just glared at him.

"I have Gatorade in the fridge if you want. Or I can just get you a water bottle."

She didn't comment.

"Water it is." He rushed into the kitchen, threw open the fridge and grabbed the last water bottle he had on hand.

She was still in the same position when he returned.

"I see I have to face Cardboard Cutout Claire this morning," he joked stiffly as he untwisted the cap of the water bottle and handed it to her. "Are you hungry at all?"

She actually shook her head this time as she accepted the water bottle. She took two small sips and winced as she swallowed.

"Claire."

Her name came out sounding more gentle and loving than he'd intended. Surprisingly, it seemed to work some magic on her. She glanced up at him from under her lashes, her pale eyes softened and vulnerable.

"Thank you for last night," she blurted. Her voice was groggy and beautiful, and he kind of felt like slamming her against the mattress and kissing her like a savage.

He'd heard women use that line on him countless times, but it was always in reference to sex.

This was oddly more satisfying to hear. This did more for his ego. Claire was complimenting his heart, not his-

"I know it was hard for you," she said.

Owen glanced down self-consciously. "Uh..."

"I didn't mean to put you in such a strained position."

He wiped the wince from his face and stood up a bit straighter. "Well, I'm glad I was in the right place at the right time, Claire."

She looked away sheepishly, tapping the side of her water bottle. "I don't know if that's true, but I'm relieved that you were there."

He couldn't believe she was saying this to him. It had to be a dream.

"Yeah?" He took caution even as he sat down on the very edge of his own bed. The water mattress lifted Claire slightly, causing her red hair to ripple around her pretty face.

She just shrugged and looked down with a shy smile. "You think you're a bad boy, but I guess you're really not."

"I'm _not_ a bad boy!" Owen exclaimed, palm slapping his heart. The sound of his hand against his bare chest drew her gaze upward.

It wasn't his imagination. She was blushing. Bigtime.

He had to bite back a grin. Maybe he was kind of bad.

"Didn't I just say you weren't? You just think you are," she reminded him.

"Once again, I have to correct you," Owen sighed. "I'm not a _boy_ , I'm a man."

"Yeah, I got that." Claire's eyes drifted over his body, as clinical as her manners would allow.

Feeling somewhat empowered by her approving gaze, Owen took the liberty of stretching again, fully aware of which muscles were most effective to flex.

Claire's hand came up to meet her forehead.

"Still dizzy?" Owen asked cheekily.

"Really dizzy," Claire echoed, slowly reclining back into the pillow.

"No worries. You can chill here for a while."

From her point of view, Claire could only see Owen's charming smile, thick neck, and brawny shoulders. He was telling her to stay a while. She had no choice, but even if she had, she wouldn't have wanted to leave. And that made her a little angry at herself.

"Thanks, I guess."

"Here." He stood up at once, causing the water mattress to jostle her body. To her surprise he lifted the sheet from over her feet, picked up her limp legs and placed them down on a pillow before covering them back up. "It helps to elevate your feet."

Claire tried not to let it show on her face that her feet were still tingling from the place he had grasped them.

He smiled tightly then turned around to start clearing off surfaces of the stray clothes that were lying everywhere.

"Don't feel obligated to tidy up just because I'm here," Claire deadpanned from the bed.

"I figure now's as good a time as any. Sorry it's such a mess," said Owen sheepishly.

"You said it before. You're a bachelor, so you don't have to concern yourself with trivial things like housekeeping."

She couldn't help but giggle when he dropped a pile of T-shirts on the ground. He bent over to pick them up, and to her horror, displayed a glorious and unwarranted view of his intergluteal cleft. She gasped aloud, causing him to jump and hit his head on an open drawer.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Claire's insistence was rendered useless by her side-splitting laughter.

With T-shirts and sweatpants dangling from his arms and a fresh pink mark on his forehead, Owen did not look amused. With a shrug he let the clothes fall from his arms in defeat and approached the mirror like a dejected little boy.

"Ah, dammit," he whispered, inspecting his head.

"Come here," Claire invited, patting the mattress by her side.

He looked wary but followed her instructions nonetheless.

Her fingers lifted to follow the faint pink line across his forehead. Claire blamed whatever alcohol still lingered in her system for her behavior. After all, she should not have needed an excuse to touch his fair brown hair, or his sweltering skin, or any other part of him for that matter.

His eyes just stared at her - steadfast, smoldering, and earthy - like storm-shaken jungle leaves.

"It doesn't look bad at all," she said softly, never taking her eyes off his.

"It stings," he admitted, his low voice like humble thunder in the quiet room.

"That's what you get for being clumsy." She couldn't resist.

"You were the one who scared me." He smirked. "Why did you gasp, anyway?"

The unbidden image of his taut bottom came into her mind, and she stifled another giggle.

"You'll never know."

His eyes flickered for signs on her face, lips slightly pursed in what appeared to be confusion.

Suddenly uncomfortable with the closeness, Claire shifted on the bed. The heat of his body trapped her as he leaned slightly over her. She was at once overcome by a strange sensation, like tiny raptor claws tickling her belly from the inside. It wasn't as unpleasant as it should have been.

Before she realized what was happening, she felt her wrist encased by warm fingers, in a grip that was both patient and beautifully aggressive.

"I know why you gasped that time," he said, now so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

Claire could think of nothing to say in response. This was not at all what she wanted, yet it was everything she wanted. She knew why she had gasped. She knew why she was not fighting him off right now. She even knew what was surely about to happen next. But she didn't stop it.

His lips collided with hers, like a comet with an unsuspecting earth. The result was catastrophic.

It was the strangest feeling to have his mouth on hers. His stubble was warm and rough against her chin, in contrast with his lips which were soft and giving. It wasn't right at all. It shouldn't have felt this way. It wasn't what she had imagined (if she had dared to even imagine it).

It was the first kiss she'd had in... God knows how long. Did they always feel like this? Like she was being tossed headfirst off a waterfall? Like her tongue was being massaged by fire? Like the Kentucky Derby was being held inside her ribcage?

This was ridiculous, inappropriate, and uncalled for...and yet she couldn't stop him.

He just kept kissing her, daring to elaborate the effort of his lips against hers. His hand swept her hair behind her ear and curled affectionately around her neck, lifting her head from the pillow ever so slightly. As if he needed her closer. As if he wanted to torment her more.

He kissed her like it was his duty to do so, as if his commanding naval officer were shouting orders at him from the bedside. He had claimed her so quickly, she wondered if she'd missed the sudden gunshot signaling him to do it. It was his imprisoning urgency that overwhelmed her into submission. This kiss was not just a gesture for him, it was a necessity. She didn't understand why.

Long before she wanted it to end, he finally pulled away. His face was flushed like a tropical flower, and his eyes were pale with fright. On his chest, that rugged scar gleamed like a badge of shame.

Claire could only think how telling her expression was in that moment. She was positively mortified by what they'd done. She was so far past blaming the alcohol - it was at least twelve hours expired at this point. No wonder this kiss had shaken her up so much. She was too sober for her own good now.

Owen, damn him, just stared at her, breathing like a beast awakened from hibernation.

She didn't want to hear what terrible, heartfelt, earnest words would come rushing out of his insultingly talented lips. So she pierced the insufferable silence with four terrible words of her own.

"Never do that again."


End file.
